A Father's Love, Version Two
by The-Deckers
Summary: STORY COMPLETE. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. Steve struggles to survive a kidnapper's brutality in the wilderness while Mark races against time to save his son. Ch13:The killer is caught, but can Steve get past the trauma and get back to work?
1. Product of the Past

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. No profit is being made from its publication. All DM characters are property of CBS/Viacom. All other characters are property of the authors.

**Authors' note:** This story is part of an experiment in writing taken on by The Sloans' Deck Writing Group. One author wrote the story starter, and the remaining members were divided into two separate groups to pursue two different story lines. This story is Version Two simply by virtue of it being finished last. One thing we at the Deck found interesting was how certain scenes were similar in each story, and yet very different. We would love to know what you think. Please, R&R.

**A Father's Love, Version Two**

**Chapter One: Product of the Past**

"Dr. Sloan," Captain Jim Newman said with as much patience as he could muster. "You don't need to testify. The D.A. can get a conviction without you. Besides, even if Tucker does get off, Steve can identify them. What we need to do is find him."

Mark pressed his hands to the table to stop their trembling and he slipped his tongue between his back teeth to keep from grinding them. After several deep breaths, he finally lifted his head and looked Captain Newman in the eye.

"For the last time, Cletus Baxter doesn't care if I testify. Tucker's Public Defender told him the D.A. could get a conviction on the physical evidence alone," he explained with failing patience.

Newman said something about not being able to delay the trial, but Mark tuned him out. He was not going to compromise until he had all the information and support he needed to help him save his son.

"Baxter told me his grandson didn't commit that murder, and that if I wanted to see Steve alive again, I would find a way to prove him innocent," Mark repeated for the fifth time. "Donald just seemed to be along for the ride. He promised me they wouldn't hurt Steve and that as soon as I cleared Tucker's name, they would send him home safe and sound."

"Dr. Sloan, we have an APB out on the Baxters and their truck. Every cop in LA is looking for them. They can't get far."

"I don't care what you're doing," Mark said in a level, but disdainful, voice, "and I do think you have underestimated Cletus Baxter. I just want to review all the files on Tucker's case, so if they contact me, I can convince them that I am trying to meet their demands. I also want you to assign Cheryl to work with me on this, and I want it all within the hour or I will call my friend at the LA Times and tell the story to him. Do you understand me?"

A small vein began to pulse in Jim Newman's forehead, and a muscle in his jaw started to twitch. He knew Mark Sloan well enough to realize that while he might try to trick killers into revealing themselves, he didn't make idle threats when it came to protecting his son. He also knew that there was no way he could get Mark to back off after stupidly pointing out that Steve didn't stand a chance of being returned safely, because even if Tucker were acquitted, he could identify his kidnappers, and they would go to jail if they returned him. After a long moment, he opened his cell phone and speed-dialed the precinct.

"Detective Banks, pack up everything we have on Tucker Baxter and bring it to Dr. Sloan's beach house. It seems that after years of helping us put away criminals, the good doctor wants to start working for the defense."

Newman closed his phone and looked at Mark. The two men locked gazes for a long, tense moment, and then Newman rose from the table and showed himself out.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve arched his back and groaned as he tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulders, but a sharp blow to his abdomen, probably from the butt of a rifle, interrupted his efforts. He fell off the spare tire on which he was sitting. As he lay on the floor of the truck doubled over and gasping for air, a hard kick to his kidneys sent a hot surge of pain through his entire body, and he grunted in pain. With his hands cuffed behind him there was no way he could defend himself, so he decided it was best to just lie still and pretend he had passed out.

"Ya were told to sit still and be quiet," Cletus Baxter's gravelly voice grated on his ears. "So help me God, ya will learn to mind me or die tryin', boy!"

"Pa, stop it!" Donald Baxter yelled through the window in the back of the cab of the truck. "I promised the Doc we wouldn't hurt him. What good will it do Tucker if we save him just to get ourselves executed for killing a cop?"

As the truck rattled and clattered over back roads, every bump and pothole jarred Steve's aching body. The black balaclava, which was tied snugly around his neck, stank strongly of mildew and the gag in his mouth tasted of motor oil. Every gasping breath he took carried the fumes and the moldy smell into his sinuses and lungs making him feel quite ill, and he could only pray that he wouldn't vomit into the gag. Beyond the mildew and oil, he detected the odors of livestock, manure, hay, and unwashed humanity. _It would be just my luck to be kidnapped by the Beverly Hillbillies. _Steve had nothing against agricultural workers or anyone else who worked hard for a living. The problem was, the Baxter family had something against him.

Steve knew from his investigation, which had often seemed more like recording an oral history than searching for a murderer, that the Baxter clan had started out as a hard working farm family, but things changed drastically for them during the Dust Bowl of the 1930's…

_Sloans' Deck_

_At the young age of twenty-five, Horace Baxter had found himself in the position of family patriarch when his father died unexpectedly of a stroke in 1936. After five years of drought, young Horace lost the family farm to the bank. Seeing no future in the dried up, worn out dirt of the Oklahoma Panhandle, Horace had decided to move west. Fliers in every store, post office, and barbershop boasted of California's bountiful Central Valley and long growing season that allowed almost continuous cultivation of diverse crops. The advertisements claimed field hands were needed to harvest everything from potatoes and peaches to cotton and carrots. _

_First, Horace convinced the local farm supply dealer to give him twelve and a half cents on the dollar for the family's 1931 Farmall tractor and attachments, which had never plowed a field nor harvested a crop in five long, thirsty years. Next, he sold the cow, which had gone dry, and the pigs which were almost too lean to butcher because they were nearly starving like everything else from Odessa, Texas, to Holdrege, Nebraska and from central Kansas to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The chickens went to his older sister, Iris, and her husband, Ralph, who ran the livery in Texhoma where they'd be able to pick enough bugs out of the hay and manure in the stable to keep them laying eggs for Iris' children. Then Horace rode the family mule into Goodwell, where he traded it, and half of his cash, for a rickety old jalopy to carry them to the Promised Land of Californ-I-A._

_The family had spent a week packing for their trip west. Foodstuffs and dry goods had pride of place, then furniture, the few clothes that they owned, and one stubborn old nanny goat that was still giving a little milk for the children. On top of everything, Horace lashed the three mattresses that made the Baxters 'rich' Okies. What could not be loaded up was left behind because there was no one left within a hundred miles who could afford to buy any of it. Then Horace had climbed into the cab of the truck alongside his mother, Eunice, and his teenage wife, Zelda, and his six younger siblings had scrambled atop the mattresses where they would make sure the ropes holding the load in place stayed tight, and they had all set off for Californ-I-A never to return again._

_Sloans' Deck_

A particularly vicious bump caused Steve's already aching head to bounce off the steel truck bed and rattled his teeth. The clattering and groaning that came from the engine made him wonder if this wasn't the very truck Horace Baxter himself had driven across northern Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, up the treacherous Black Mountains and through the Mojave Desert. He knew seventy years of history should have nothing to do with Tucker Baxter's case, but he couldn't help thinking that things would have been different if his great-great-grandfather had been a luckier man. Still, the boy had a mind of his own, and he was more than just a helpless product of his family's past.

_Sloans' Deck_

_It took Horace Baxter ten weeks to get his family to Bakersfield, California, at the south end of the San Joaquin Valley. He was totally unprepared for signs reading 'OKIES GO HOME!' and 'NO JOBS HERE!' Hundreds of thousands of other bankrupt farmers had traveled west ahead of him, and the jobs that had been advertised back in Goodwell, Texhoma, and the other panhandle towns were gone. Devastated, Horace could do nothing more than build his family a cardboard and scrap metal shack in one of the many 'Okieville' shantytowns that dotted the fertile valley. On those rare occasions when he found work, his day's wage, which could be all of five and a half dollars on a very good day, would be spent on cornmeal and cabbage, and he would pray that it would feed his family until he could find another job._

_Conditions in the Okieville were deplorable. The dirt floor of the shack turned to mud when it rained, and the stench of so much humanity living so closely together could be unbearable on hot nights. The lack of running water and sanitation led to frequent outbreaks of disease, and by the end of 1936, two of Horace's younger siblings had died of dysentery and Zelda had miscarried her first child._

_A bright spot appeared in 1937 when the Farm Security Administration opened its first relief camps with one-room tin shacks and tents sitting up on wooden pallets. Horace somehow 'acquired' two dozen bushels of plums and sold them to get the money he needed to move his family into the camp. The family earned the dollar a week they needed to stay there by doing maintenance chores around camp. It was no paradise, but with hot showers, flush toilets, and breakfast for the children at a penny a day, it was the best thing they'd seen since they'd left Oklahoma. Sometimes, when they worked in the camp, the family was paid in flour and lard, which would be used to make biscuits for dinner._

_Sloans' Deck_

The truck hit another bump, and Steve woke up, wondering how he had fallen asleep. He realized he was hungry when his stomach growled so loudly that he tensed in preparation for another beating from Cletus. He had no idea how long he had been lying in the bed of the truck, but his whole right side was numb. As the truck bounced along, he began to hurt more and more. What wasn't numb ached. His head was throbbing and his teeth rattled with every pothole and lump in the road. His neck and shoulders were stiff, and his wrists were sore where they had been handcuffed for no telling how long. Finally, he decided he was hurting enough to change his position and risk further abuse for moving, but he wasn't going to be a fool about it. He would try to make it look like he was simply moving in his sleep.

Steve waited patiently for another bump in the road, and it wasn't long in coming. The truck felt like it was running over a giant washboard. When it bounced, he rolled over onto his stomach and waited to get hit. When no blows or kicks rained down on him, he figured his small deception had been successful, and if not for the gag in his mouth, he would have smiled.

_Sloans' Deck_

_In October, Zelda gave birth to a baby boy, Avery, who was always colicky and difficult and who grew up to be a mean and difficult man who shunned his fellows and lived in a one-room squatter's cabin in the wilderness east of the valley. Avery Baxter's wife, Elyse, was ill tempered and hardheaded, more than a match for her husband. She gave birth to Cletus Baxter on the dirt floor of the cabin because her husband didn't want her bloodying the sheets on their bed. As the eldest of four children, Cletus was beaten often as he was growing up, sometimes for things he'd done wrong, sometimes for things he hadn't done right, and sometimes just for the hell of it. His younger brothers and sister didn't escape their parents' wrath either, and they escaped to the valley as soon as they were old enough to work._

_Unlike his brothers and sister, Cletus preferred the solitude of the wilderness. He also felt some sense of obligation to his parents, and stayed on at the cabin caring for them when they became too old and ill to care for themselves. He had married young, and his wife, unable to tolerate the abuse she got from her husband and in-laws, abandoned him when their son Donald was less than a year old. Cletus raised Donald in much the same way he, himself, had been brought up, but times had changed, and parents could no longer beat their children for every little thing. In 1976, Donald's first grade teacher referred him to the school psychologist, and within a week, the youngster had been removed from his father's care._

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve almost shook his head in wonder, but he remembered Cletus' warning just in time and wryly thought that he would indeed 'mind' the old man, if only to avoid another beating. How a father could abuse his children, and how an abused child could allow the cycle to continue with his own offspring was beyond him. It was a shame that foster care hadn't been the salvation Donald had needed. If the experience had been better for Donald, maybe Tucker Baxter wouldn't be in trouble now.

_Sloans' Deck_

_For Donald Baxter, foster care had been a nightmare of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. In his first four years in the system, he was placed in six different foster homes. His complaints weren't believed, and by the time he was ten, Donald had been labeled a troublemaker and a liar. As he grew up, Donald learned to fight back, and then he really earned his troublemaker reputation by beating up younger foster children. He 'aged out' of the foster care system at eighteen, and by then, he had been through five social workers and almost thirty foster homes. He'd also done some time in a group home for juvenile offenders after he had put one of his younger foster brothers in the hospital._

_Not long after his eighteenth birthday, Donald fathered a son, Tucker, to a seventeen-year-old crack addicted prostitute. The relationship didn't last long, but Donald remained a part of his son's life. Just after the little boy's second birthday, his mother had been diagnosed with AIDS, and she was dead before Tucker started school. Donald had managed an uneasy reconciliation with his father, and with support from Cletus, he took the child into his care._

_Tucker struggled academically, but under the instruction of caring teachers, he proved to be a more than willing student, and by the time he hit high school at the age of sixteen (two years behind most of his peers) he was well on his way to making something of his life. He was in the special needs program and had been scheduled for an Academic Strategies course that would teach him the study and organizational skills necessary for him to be successful in school. Until he ran afoul of the LAPD homicide division, his guidance counselor had believed that he would not only graduate high school, but also stood a decent chance of getting into college._

_Unfortunately, Tucker was subject to bouts of terrible rage, and while Donald and Cletus did their best to provide for him, they each had their own history of violence to contend with and were entirely unequipped to help the boy learn to control his temper. Tucker had a bad habit of fighting, and he had been to court four times in the last two years of middle school for assaulting his classmates. Still, he continued to work hard and managed to keep his grades up._

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve sighed tiredly as the truck continued to bump and bounce along. He thought he understood a little of what Tucker must have been going through. Growing up, he'd had tantrums like any child, but his loving mother and clever father had usually been able to help him channel his anger into something productive. By the time he was old enough to get into any real trouble, he had learned to vent his wrath in acceptable ways like running and working out. Even when he couldn't redirect his fury, he had never gone as far as Tucker had, but once he was grown and working on the police force, his temper had gotten him into hot water with his captain once or twice. He wondered how much worse things might have been for him if he hadn't grown up with two caring parents who worked hard to guide him in a positive direction. Somehow, he had a feeling that if it weren't for his mom and dad, he would have been able to identify with Tucker Baxter far more than he did already.

_Sloans' Deck_

_Not long after he started at South Gate Senior High School, Tucker became the target of a group of bullies. They very quickly found out that calling him a 'dummy' was all it took to set him off, because he was sensitive about being in the special needs program. The taunting had gotten progressively worse and Tucker had gotten into trouble repeatedly for fighting. When he was caught passing a threatening note to one of his tormentors, a boy named Rico Alonso, he was suspended for ten days, and when he came back to school, the teasing was worse than ever and had escalated to pushing in the halls and stealing his books and homework._

_Tucker's teachers knew things were headed for a major confrontation between him and the bullies, and while they did try to intervene and prevent as many altercations as possible, they simply couldn't be everywhere all the time, so problems were inevitable. Though the school was well aware of the situation between Tucker and Rico's clique, no one had any idea how serious it was until Tucker was found looming over the other boy's corpse, spattered in blood, a claw hammer from the wood shop dangling from his hand, just as Tucker had described in his letter._

_Sloans' Deck_

When the truck finally stopped, Steve nearly cried with relief. Cletus Baxter poked him with the barrel of the hunting rifle, and he struggled gamely to sit up; but with his hands still cuffed behind his back, he found it impossible. He felt the extra weight of Donald when he climbed into the bed of the truck to assist him, and couldn't help but be grateful for the steadying hand that guided him over to the tailgate and down to the ground. The gravel of a driveway crunched under his feet for a few paces, and then he carefully stepped up when Donald told him he had come to the porch stairs. The air cooled as he entered the shade of the building, and the outdoor sounds became muffled as he passed through the door.

Steve strained to hear what was going on around him as he was left to stand alone, the stinking balaclava still covering his face. A strange tinkling noise reached his ears, and he could only wonder what it was. He must have been more exhausted than he thought, because he suddenly lost his balance and had to take several staggering steps to keep from falling.

"Stand still, damn ya," Cletus Baxter growled, and Steve froze as he felt a hard, wide band encircle his left leg and heard it click shut.

Finally, the cuffs were removed, and as he tried to rub the circulation back into his wrists, the balaclava and gag were taken off as well. After several moments of squinting and blinking, Steve was able to make out some details of his surroundings. He was in a dilapidated, one-room log cabin. The bark of the old trees still showed on the walls, and the windows were just holes cut through the logs with shutters to close them against the rain. The floor was filthy and worn smooth, but the wide pale stripes of wood still contrasted with the darker lines of bark from rough-hewn sawmill slabs. Looking down at his leg, he saw an ancient iron shackle around his ankle, fastened in place with a brand new heavy-duty combination lock. A massive chain ran off of it to an iron eye in the wall. It was long enough to give him freedom to move but wouldn't let him reach the door.

As Donald Baxter stared malevolently around the dingy room, Cletus shoved a broom into Steve's hand and said, "Long as you're here, you're gonna make yourself useful. Ya can start by sweepin' the floor. It's been years since I've been out here, and since there's no tellin' how long it'll take your pa to figure out who killed that boy, ya might as well make the place livable."

Dumbfounded, Steve stared at Cletus for several moments, unable to believe that he was going to be held captive as a domestic servant until the Baxters saw fit to either kill him or release him. He must have stood for a moment too long, though, because before he knew it, Cletus jammed the butt of the rifle into his abdomen again, and he fell to his knees gasping for air. At least Cletus had the decency to let him get his breath before threatening him again, but this time, Steve got quickly to his feet and started sweeping the cabin floor.


	2. Lesson in Pain

**Chapter Two: Lesson in Pain**

Cletus watched Steve carefully as he swept the room and was gratified to see the hunch to his shoulders, the careful, slightly awkward movements to avoid pulling on bruised muscles, and winces of pain when he didn't quite manage it. He had learnt long ago and, at first, from his own bitter experience, that pain was a powerful tool when eliciting compliance. If he wanted an easy time of it, for however long they had to keep this cop here, then he knew what he had to do.

Steve did his best with the broom, the heavy ankle chain restricting his movement and already beginning to chafe against his skin. He tried to concentrate on nothing but his task, not willing to do anything at the moment that would give Cletus another excuse to hit him. He needed time to recover, time to absorb what had happened to him, and to weigh up his options for doing something about it. Keeping his eyes focussed on the floor, he was almost surprised when he caught the edge of a boot with the head of the broom. He looked up to meet Cletus Baxter's gaze and felt a flash of anger at his treatment, his grip tightened, whitening his knuckles, and his jaw clenched as he fought to repress it. Now was not the time.

"I need to get behind you," he said with as much politeness as he could muster, raising the broom slightly to indicate that he desired nothing more than to complete his sweeping.

For a moment Cletus didn't move, studying him carefully, allowing the tension to build in the air around them as Steve was forced to wait for a reply. A reply that might be a fist or the butt of the rifle that Cletus still held with a dangerous casualness, his finger always hovering near the trigger. Cletus smiled a grin that showed the empty toothless gaps, offset on both upper and lower jaw, and then nodded slightly, stepping back to let Steve past.

As he turned he caught sight of his son, who had been watching with morbid fascination, afraid of what his father would do. "What're ya standin' there fer?" he asked, gesturing with his rifle. "Make yourself useful and bring in the supplies from the truck."

Startled to suddenly become the focus of his father's attention, Donald hastily retreated through the door.

Cletus shook his head lamenting the fact that the system had turned his son so soft. No guts for what had to be done. Oh, sure, Donald had a temper, but when it came right down to it he was a coward, would never have taken the necessary steps to get justice for his son, not on his own. Cletus spat some of the tobacco he was chewing onto the floor and turned his attention back to Steve. He hadn't missed the flash of anger, the defiance in his stance even as he had done as he was told. That would need to be dealt with and soon, before their prisoner forgot his place.

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark opened the door to the beach house and favoured Cheryl with a tired smile.

"Hi Mark," she said, slightly awkwardly, her own subdued smile of greeting quickly disappearing as she gestured with the large bundle of papers in her arms "I. . .er. . . brought the files that you asked for," she stated.

She had practiced so many openings and expressions of concern and sympathy on the way over, but somehow all of them seemed inadequate. She knew how much Steve meant to Mark, knew how worried he must be. Hell, she was worried enough herself about her missing partner, especially given what she knew about the Baxters. They were violent men who believed in a justice that bore very little resemblance to the law, or to what was just for that matter. In their world, strength ruled, and strength was expressed through violence. She put very little faith in their promises not to hurt Steve, and was consequently having a hard time not letting her own concerns consume her thought processes. If it was that bad for her, she could only imagine how bad it must be for Mark. Every minute that Steve was missing must be tearing him apart. So what could she say that would even begin to help?

"Thanks," Mark said, increasing his smile to help make her feel at ease. "It was good of you to get here so quickly. Here let me help you with those," he said gesturing at the files.

Cheryl allowed him to take some of the bundle. "It's the least I can do, anything that might help us get Steve out of this. . ." She let the sentiment trail. Not wanting to acknowledge that this might be a useless exercise. She had worked with Steve on the case and was in no doubt that Tucker Baxter was guilty, but she knew that Mark had to confirm that for himself. What they would do once he did, she wasn't sure, but for the moment she would help the old doctor in any way that she could.

He turned and led the way towards the back of the house. "I hope you don't mind I invited Jesse and Amanda out to help us go through these." By the time he had finished the sentence they were at the dining table where Jesse and Amanda were waiting.

"No, not at all," Cheryl placed her section of the papers on the table and nodded a greeting, "Dr. Travis, Dr. Bentley," before looking back to Mark. "OK where do you want to start?"

_Sloans' Deck_

At last, Steve had a few moments to himself; Donald had gone back to the truck and Cletus had disappeared outside. Steve had finished the sweeping, brushing the worst of the dust out through the door and onto the small wooden porch beyond. Cletus had snatched the broom from him and placed it out of his reach on the opposite side of the room before heading outside, whatever else the man was, he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to leave Steve with a potential weapon.

Steve let out a huge sigh and allowed himself to sink to the floor, easing his bruised torso against the wall and getting his first chance to examine the shackle and chain on his ankle. The iron was rusted on the outside but far too solid to offer him any hope of breaking it. The four-digit combination lock was also a non-starter. The shackle was there to stay until the Baxters decided to remove it. The only potential weak point in the whole system was where the chain was attached to the ring on the wall. The metal plate was screwed well to the wooden boards that made up the wall on this side, however the timber was old, and the years of neglect had taken their toll. It was just possible that the timber was rotten enough for him to be able to prise the metal plate away. Of course, he would need some time alone to get anywhere, it would make too much noise to try to do anything when the Baxters were around, but, for the first time since his abduction, Steve allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. Maybe he could get out of this, if he could just bide his time and wait for the right opportunity.

His ankle exploded in pain as a boot made contact with the heavy shackle and he looked up to see Cletus glaring down at him. He glared back, the violent action, once again, had been completely unnecessary.

"Ain't no time for ya to be daydreamin'," Cletus said, dumping a bucket next to Steve's leg so that the cold water splashed over him. "You've still got work t' do." He dropped a large scrubbing brush into the water, so that it splashed over him again, before throwing a soap bar at his chest. Steve barely caught it. "I want this floor scrubbed clean enough to eat off," Cletus continued, "'cos you're gonna be," he chuckled at his own joke, before sobering at Steve's inaction and turning around the butt of his rifle, "Or d' ya need another reminder of whose in charge around here."

Once again, defiance flashed in Steve's eyes as he worked to control his temper. Rationally he knew that to fight back from his current position could be suicidal, but there was nothing rational about the anger he felt, it bubbled under the surface even as he nodded and moved to his knees to begin the backbreaking task of scrubbing the floors. At least it would give him a relatively clean place to sleep. The thought allowed him a modicum of calm as he rationalised his own obedience to the bullying behaviour. He fished the brush from the freezing water and began to rub it over the soap.

Cletus watched disappointed, he had been sure that this would be enough to provoke Steve into fighting back, hadn't expected him to give in so easily. Still there was time, when the defiance finally showed itself he would teach him a lesson he would never forget.

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark let out a heavy sigh and closed the file. Placing it down on the table in front of him he took off his glasses and pinched his nose, trying to ease the tension of the growing headache behind his eyes.

Reading the file on the Baxters' background seemed to be of little use, only increasing his already almost overwhelming concern for Steve's safety. The family history spoke of violence and lack of respect for any laws but their own, and if Mark had had any doubts before about their willingness to kill Steve in revenge if Tucker Baxter was found guilty and placed on death row, he had none now.

He opened his eyes to three concerned faces looking back at him. "OK," he said, taking charge before anyone had a chance to express that concern or sympathy, knowing that that would be his undoing. "We've had a chance to look through all of the files. What have we got?"

"Pretty open and shut case," Amanda said. "Tucker had the victim's blood all over his clothing and was found standing over the body with the murder weapon in his hand."

"And," Jesse added, "he'd written a note threatening to bash Rico's brains in with a hammer if he didn't leave him alone."

"The hammer came from a wood shop class that Tucker was in only hours before." Amanda picked up the photograph from the forensic report. "The teacher hadn't even gotten around to reporting it missing. It had Tucker's fingerprints all over it, as well as traces of blood, skin and hair from the victim. All of the wounds were consistent with blows from this hammer, the cause of death was massive head trauma." She turned the picture around so the others could see. "There's no doubt that this was the murder weapon."

"Even with the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, Steve and I still checked into other possibilities, but we didn't find anything to implicate anyone else in the crime." It was Cheryl's turn to speak. "Tucker himself refused to speak to us, refused to speak to the police in general, beyond stating that he didn't do it. That was all he would say before he clamed up completely."

"So he offered no explanation as to how he came to be there with the victim at all?" Mark asked.

Cheryl shook her head. "No."

Jesse sighed in frustration. "I'd convict him, he had motive and opportunity, and the evidence is pretty stacked against him. I don't think there's anything we can do"

Mark shook his head, giving up was not an option when it may be their only opportunity to save Steve, besides there was something niggling at him. Something that he had seen in the last couple of hours, something that wasn't quite right. "Well we've looked at the evidence with an open mind," he said, "and it seems to be drawing us to the conclusion that Tucker is guilty. Now let's look through it again, only this time let's assume that he's innocent. Is there anything in here that could possibly support that?"

It was a half hour before anyone spoke again, Mark had stood to get everyone more coffee, and Amanda called him over as he went past. "Mark, look at this photograph," she said handing him a forensic picture of Tucker's clothing. "Do you notice anything unusual?"

Mark looked at the blood spatter patterns. "Well a lot of the blood is smeared and smudged, rather than definite droplets."

"Precisely, everyone assumed that was because Tucker tried to wipe the blood off his clothing." She paused, "But what if he actually wiped it on?"

Mark thought for a moment. "Are you suggesting that Tucker deliberately smeared his own clothing in the victim's blood?"

Amanda nodded. "It's another explanation as to how the blood got on there, and it fits with the evidence."

"I think I have something too," Jesse stated, "I've just been looking at the statement from the teacher whose class the hammer was taken from. According to him, all of the tools were used that morning. So why were only Tucker's fingerprints found on it? Why would he wipe everyone else's prints off it before using it to murder someone? It makes no sense."

"Unless," Mark said, putting the two facts together with Tucker's reluctance to talk, "he's protecting someone." He moved back to his seat all thoughts of coffee abandoned, finally a break.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve had been exhausted before he started the floor, the tension and the violence had both taken their toll, eating away at his reserves of energy, by the time he had finished he barely had the energy to stand, the muscles of his back ached from actions they were unused to performing. He threw the brush into the bucket as he stood, heedless of being splashed again on trousers that were already soaked from the knees down and covered in grime. His hands were freezing from constantly being dipped in the cold water and his knuckles grazed from catching the brush in the floorboards and twisting his hands over as he pushed on it.

He turned to face Cletus who scowled at the floor. "I suppose it'll do," he said gesturing with his rifle for Steve to head back towards the chain ring as he moved to get the bucket. "Next, it'll be the windows."

Steve had started moving, expecting to finally be allowed some rest. "No," the refusal left his lips before he even acknowledged it.

Cletus whirled round, scenting the confrontation he moved to provoke it. "What did ya say, boy?" The last word was spat with a derogatory venom.

Steve could no longer control the anger. "I said no, I won't be your skivvy," he stated defiantly.

"You'll do whatever I tell ya." Cletus roared, his face reddening as he allowed his own rage to build. He brought the rifle butt around to strike another blow but this time Steve blocked it.

Even in his weakened state Steve's training, strength and agility showed, as he easily turned the rifle and pushed it back to strike Cletus on the side, the rush of adrenaline fueling his anger as he fought back, heedless of the consequences. He was so focussed on Cletus however that he failed to notice Donald's return, was unaware of his presence until he felt the blow make contact with his temple. Donald used the butt of his own rifle to drop Steve to the floor.

Steve landed on his hands and knees. Stunned, he remained there, supporting himself as he tried to clear his head. As the world swam back into focus he became aware of the raging figure of Cletus Baxter at his side, felt the rip of his shirt up his back and cold air against his skin.

"Think ya can hit me," Cletus roared, "Well I'll learn ya."

Suddenly Steve's senses snapped back and he knew what was to come. He braced himself as he heard the tell tale swish through the air, but nothing could have prepared him for the sharp screaming pain as Cletus' leather belt impacted with his unprotected back, the metal buckle cutting into his skin and then tearing at it as it was dragged away. An involuntary cry of pain was pulled from him as nerve endings seemed to explode. He barely had time to recover before the next blow landed and the pattern was repeated. This time he tried his best not to cry out as tears streamed down his face. Time after time Cletus raised the belt in an arc above his shoulder bringing it down full force.

Steve wasn't sure how many blows he held out for, but eventually his arms gave way and he collapsed to the ground, acknowledging nothing other than pain, his back a living, breathing, sea of fire.

"Pa, stop!" Donald cried out plaintively.

Cletus paused, his arm raised for another blow. Sweating and breathing heavily from the exertion, his pupils dilated from the massive adrenaline rush that accompanied the violent action, he looked up at his son.

"You're going to kill him," Donald stated quickly, pleadingly, "We need him alive." He looked back down at Steve, appalled at the mess his father had made of his back. He had meant it when he'd told Mark that they would not hurt him. All he wanted was to prove his son's innocence, but not this way.

Cletus looked back down at his victim, snorting air out through his nostrils as he allowed the adrenaline to dissipate, the rage leaving him on a natural high, a complete power trip as he looked at the damage he had inflicted. "He shouldn't have hit me," he stated, allowing his arm to drop to his side he turned and walked outside. The detective would not challenge him again in a hurry.

Donald watched his father leave, and then moved into the small kitchen. Retrieving what he needed he returned and knelt at Steve's side. "I'm sorry we ain't got no antiseptic," he said apologetically. "So this is gonna hurt real bad, but it'll stop it getting infected," and with that he poured salt onto the ugly red welts on Steve's back.

Steve would not have believed that the pain could get any worse, but the salt was like having a million tiny knives shoved into the wounds all at once. It was too much for his system to take and, mercifully, he passed out.


	3. Intriguing Interview

**Chapter Three: Intriguing Interview**  
  
Mark scrubbed a weary hand over his aching eyes. Staring at the files for longer would accomplish nothing; they had extracted every scrap of possible information from those papers. As he finally focused on something other than the files, he realised not only how dark it had become but also how exhausted his helpers looked. Even as he watched, Jesse valiantly suppressed a yawn and Cheryl leaned back, stretching to work out the kinks in her back.

It was all so familiar. They had done this hundreds of times before, a pattern well established. Yet Steve's absence cast a horribly discordant note in their usual harmony.

Gratitude burned in his eyes as he realised that none of his friends intended to call a halt to the proceedings. It was up to him. He dredged up as optimistic a smile as he could manage as he summarised their findings.

"We'd better call it a night," he announced reluctantly. "We've got some good leads to work on tomorrow. Cheryl if you could manage to arrange it, I'd like to talk to Tucker in the morning."

She nodded doubtfully. "I'm sure I could set it up. But, I'm not sure if you'll get anything useful out of him."

"If I confront him with what we suspect, it's possible he might crack, and he might be more open with someone who's not a cop. It's worth a try. We should also do some digging into the background of Rico. Maybe there's some gang activity or other obvious motives for his murder that could lead us elsewhere." He turned to Jesse and Amanda. "While I'm talking to Tucker, maybe you two could go to the school and find out more about whom the boy might be protecting - a friend, a girlfriend. It must be someone he cares deeply for to go to this extreme."

With everybody's assent to this plan, he ushered them to the door. Amanda lingered after the others left, taking in the white strain dusted around her friend's mouth and noticing how his normal vitality was dimmed. "Would you like me to stay the night?" she asked tentatively. "I hate to leave you alone right now."

"I'll be just fine, honey," he replied, touched by her consideration. "With a good night's sleep, I will feel a lot better in the morning."

A good night's sleep was a great theory but proved impossible to achieve in practice. Saturated by the facts of the case, his mind refused to relinquish its hold on the proceedings and, as his exhausted body struggled to drag him down into the oblivion of sleep, his mind fought back, startling him awake with the panicky insistence that he'd missed something important that could save Steve.

The knowledge that his son was almost certainly not enjoying the comforts of a feather bed further eroded his chances of rest. He savagely reined in his imagination from speculation of the conditions under which his son could be suffering, knowing that such contemplation would merely paralyse his ability to think clearly.

After several hours of fruitless tossing and turning, Mark abandoned his bed, vaguely considering a mug of warm milk as an aid to sleep. Yet, almost unconsciously, his feet took him down the steps into his son's apartment. Switching the light on, he gazed around the empty room, conscious of a strong feeling of guilt that his reputation for crime solving was responsible for placing his son in jeopardy. However, he attempted to clear his mind of such negativity, pulling the comfort of his son's essence, so strong in the room, around him like a mantle until he finally fell asleep on the couch.

_Sloans' Deck_

It was fortunate that Mark could not witness Steve's condition and bunking arrangements, or sleep would almost certainly have been denied him. His son lay rigidly on his right side on the wooden, but, thanks to his efforts, at least passably clean floor, unable to find a position that offered any possibility of comfort. At least he enjoyed the illusion of solitude, as his captors lay sleeping on the other side of the cabin, the father in a small cot and son on a mattress pulled out from underneath it. From the cacophony of snores arising from their location, they were now asleep, and he amused himself with idle fantasies of throttling them with the chain in their slumber. Of course, even if he were tempted to go to such extremes, he knew the rattling of his movements would awaken them long before he could approach close enough to succeed.

Besides, he didn't feel that he had the energy to throttle a mouse, never mind his two wiry tormentors. His back was on fire, an agonising conflagration that was exacerbated by the slightest movement on his part. He didn't even bother testing the strength of the wooden panel, knowing that while he was weak, escape was an improbable option.

However, underneath the seemingly submissive surface of acceptance, the simmer of rebellion was building to a slow boil and the unequivocal determination to break away from his captors burned high. Patience wasn't his forte, but he could employ it when necessary, especially now that he also had a firmer idea of when to effect an escape. Before the Baxters turned in for the night, they had removed his chains and taken him to the outhouse, obviously deciding that since they were sharing the one small room, the basic necessities of cleanliness must be observed. The outhouse was a four-foot square, dilapidated construction with a primitive seat over an odorous hole in the ground that was hardly conducive to a leisurely experience, but Steve was more interested in the opportunity it represented.

At the time, Steve could barely walk, every ripple of muscle and current of air sending electric jolts of agony down his back. They had guarded him well during the exercise, but he'd used the occasion to surreptitiously assess the surroundings and was determined that at some point while the chains were off, he would make his move, an attempt that would be improved if he feigned a greater weakness than he was feeling, although that would be difficult at the present time.

Eventually, the pain subsided sufficiently to surrender to exhaustion, and he fell into an unsettled but surprisingly deep sleep.

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark was woken after only a couple of hours curled uncomfortably on Steve's couch by a phone call from Cheryl informing him of an appointment at the penitentiary at 10:00 and offering to meet him there to expedite his entry.

With the help of coffee and a jolt of adrenaline on behalf of his son, Mark felt alert, but knowing how much rode on this interview, he was also apprehensive. Due to the severity of the crime, Tucker, although a juvenile, was being held in the Los Angeles Men's Central Jail and would be tried as an adult. It was far from a pleasant environment, and Mark guiltily hoped that it would have softened the kid up sufficiently that he was willing to talk.

Cheryl had acceded reluctantly to his request to talk to the boy alone, so he was shown into the interview area and left. It was a dingy room, redolent of aggression and despair, the odors of vomit and urine perceptible under the overpowering stench of disinfectant.

The door rattled, and he turned for his first impression of Tucker Baxter. The boy was small for his age, probably a legacy from his crack-dependent mother. His expression was sullen, but deep in his eyes Mark could glimpse both fear and intelligence. The guard nudged him over to the table, then, at Mark's request, agreed to wait outside the door.

For an awkward moment the two stared at each other; then Mark broke the silence by introducing himself.

"Hi. My name's Mark Sloan. I'm a doctor at Community General Hospital. Please sit down." He gestured at a chair, and after a pause, the boy slid into it, but not before Mark could see recognition of his name register on the teen's face. Tucker was evidently cognisant of the hostage situation, although presumably after the fact.

Wanting the issue open between them, he baldly stated, "Your grandfather and father have kidnapped my son and are holding him until I can prove you innocent."

"Yeah, I've heard." The grunted reply was a far cry from the apology Mark would have liked, but he thought he could detect a faint trace of regret in the boy's voice. He wondered how much of Tucker's attitude was the normal intransigence of adolescence and how much was a deeper noncompliance inherited from his family.

"Actually," Mark admitted cautiously, "I do believe you're innocent."

"Yeah?" Tucker tried to maintain his mask of indifference, but a ray of shy pleasure slipped through.

"Yeah," Mark confirmed, slipping into the teen's own vernacular.

"No one else does," Tucker complained, though without much heat.

"Well, your family obviously does," Mark remarked, but it was the wrong thing to say, and the kid closed down fast, watching Mark through eyes now shuttered and wary.

Mark mentally cursed his inopportune comment, realising the relationship between the generations of Baxters was complex and not an issue for discussion. It occurred to Mark that maybe the older Baxters didn't believe Tucker and this attempt at rescue was merely an issue of family pride. He felt chills of dismay at this thought, knowing it wouldn't augur well for Steve's chances of survival.

He attempted to get the conversation back on track. "You're making it difficult for people to believe in you. Given the amount of evidence against you, the police need some sort of explanation of the circumstances."

He received only a sullen shrug. "I said I didn't do it."

Mark took a deep breath, holding on to the shreds of his patience. "And if you didn't," he continued, "there are two possibilities. First, you were framed and you're too scared to come forward with the truth."

As he expected, this produced a knee-jerk reaction of bravado. "I ain't scared of nobody."

Mark tipped a challenging eyebrow at him, trying to entice him into embellishing on this response, but the boy subsided with a glare. Mark considered pointing out that he should be scared of the harsh realities of prison life, but realised that this veiled threat would not be conducive to establishing a trusting relationship.

"The second option is that you're protecting the person who did kill Rico. You wiped the murder weapon, establishing your fingerprints on it and smeared yourself with blood."

The teen straightened his shoulders with a defiant expression and Mark nodded slowly, reading the body language as confirmation of their theory. "It takes tremendous courage and love to assume the blame for somebody else's crimes." He was tempted to add 'stupidity', but knew his next remark would be sufficiently crushing.

"Does this person also love you, if they're willing for you to take the fall for them?"

There was a flash of emotion in the boys' eyes that Mark hoped was doubt, but it was gone before he could identify it for sure. "You shouldn't go to prison for something you didn't do," he assured him solemnly. "No one who loved you would allow you to make that sacrifice."

"Then you better prove my innocence," Tucker said rudely.

"Presumably, to do that, I need to implicate the person you're protecting," Mark stated carefully. "It's unlikely I can do one without the other."

Although Tucker offered no comment to that, there was a hint of vulnerability in his surly stare.

"If that's the case," Mark continued hopefully, "why don't you just tell me who you're protecting. I could really use the help."

"I can't."

'Can't', not 'won't'. It was a subtle difference, but it might have significance.

"Can I go now?" The words were insolently stated, but Mark sensed a reluctance to leave, maybe just because the boy didn't want to return to the prison population at large, but it offered some hope.

Seeking some way of establishing common ground, an idea occurred to him. "You know, I was framed once for a murder I didn't commit," he volunteered casually.

"Yeah?" There was definite interest in the monosyllable.

This time Mark fought the urge to respond in kind, but it seemed to be infectious. "Yeah. They found me guilty too. I was on Death Row for months."

Tucker looked him dubiously up and down, obviously weighing his evident respectability against the concept. "No kidding?"

It was a relief from the ubiquitous 'yeah', and Mark couldn't help smiling as interest again peeked through the detached exterior. The boy was young enough to regard a death sentence as a cachet.

Mark found himself liking the teen. Beneath the protective shell, he was almost naive and Mark wondered again about the relationship he had with his parents, the strange combination of abuse and affection that produced such artless toughness.

"In fact, I'd probably still be there...or executed...if it hadn't been for my son."

"What did he do?" The fascination seemed to be with the story itself; the boy hadn't yet made the application to his own situation.

"It's a long story, but he never stopped believing in me, and he eventually proved that I was framed and got me released."

"Yeah!" This time it was said with satisfaction and the idea seemed to resonate, and Mark continued to mine the topic, hoping to enlist the teen's sympathies.

"That wasn't the only time he saved my life." There was encouragement in the wide-eyed stare.

"There was one time, I was in the middle of a terrible forest fire. There was no way out - I was barbecue. But Steve, despite the fact that he'd been injured earlier, left his hospital bed, more or less hijacked a news helicopter, and saved my life."

Mark's chest tightened and he could hardly speak through the lump in his throat as he contemplated all the times his son had protected him, sometimes merely by interposing his body between Mark and a threat. He knew it was too soon to push, but the desperate plea bubbled out before he could stop it.

"He's always been there for me." He held the teen's gaze with the intensity of his own anguish. "I have to help him now. Please, is there is any way you can help me help my son?"

His urgent plea touched the teen, and for a moment, the issue hung heavily in the balance, but Mark could see when the training of a lifetime and loyalty to his own kin tipped the scales, and Mark knew he'd lost as the teen dropped his gaze. Before the rejection could be voiced, Mark added. "If you can't help with this murder, is there anything you could tell me about where they might be holding Steve?"

It was a forlorn hope, but since his most critical goal was the return of his son, he thought it was worth a try. However, the boy looked ready to bolt at the mere suggestion. He shook his head emphatically. "Gramps would kill me."

Mark considered the response, obscurely encouraged despite the refusal. The phrasing suggested that Tucker did have an idea as to where his family might have taken Steve, which suggested a familiarity with the location. If there was a family history connected to this place, it could be traced by thorough detective work.

"Can you contact him?" Mark asked randomly, fishing for any additional information he could land without spooking the teen further.

Tucker shook his head. "Look, they're not going to hurt him," he offered tentatively.

"Do you really believe that?" Mark asked him seriously.

The flicker of uncertainty in the boy's eyes was answer enough. "If he does what they tell him, he'll probably be okay," he answered doubtfully. This reply was anything but reassuring, since Mark knew his son too well to expect he would submit to orders from anyone.

He fought to keep his voice steady as he addressed the teen again. "I'd do my best to prove you innocent even if I got Steve back, I promise you that."

"Just do what they say. It's easier that way." He got up to leave, resignation to his own role written sullenly on his face.

"Wait." Mark held out his card. "Please, if you think of anything that would help, call me any time."

The boy hesitated, but in the end accepted the card, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. "Yeah." He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind and knocked on the door for the guard to escort him away.

Left alone, Mark sat back in one of the chairs, unable to sum up the energy to leave. The taste of failure was bitter in his mouth. The irony was that he almost respected the motivation of the Baxters. If Steve had been in that position, he would have gone to almost any lengths to save him. He couldn't even blame Tucker for not betraying his family, he'd received little appreciation from them in his life, and the fact that they were willing to go to such an extreme for him must feel like validation.

There were strange undercurrents in the interview, but when he tried to let his mind relax to analyse the nuances of expression and tone, his reasoning refused to move past the concept that while the Baxters had taken effective, if illegal, action to help their son, Steve was still depending on Mark to help him.

He was still reflecting on that unpleasant notion when Cheryl entered. "No luck?" she queried sympathetically, seeing the grim look on his face

"Not much," he responded with a sigh. "I'm sure we're right about him defending the real murderer, but I've got no idea who that might be. I also got the impression that he knows where they're keeping Steve, so we might find something if we research property belonging to family and friends."

"I've got one piece of news for you." Seeing the hope in the look Mark cast her way, she hastily added, "There are no leads on their current whereabouts but it could still prove significant. You know we put the APB out on the Baxter's truck. Well, we've got nothing recent, but there's a reported sighting near the school the morning of the murder."


	4. Contrasts

**Chapter Four: Contrasts**

Steve sat hunched over the meager portion of instant oatmeal that was his breakfast, attempting to divert his thoughts from the discomforts of his situation with sardonic comparisons to an old-fashioned prison diet of gruel and water. He was propped awkwardly sideways against the wall, prevented by the fiery throbbing in his back from a normal recline against the rough wooden surface, but, conscious of his half-formulated plan from the night, desirous of presenting an image of someone too weak to even sit unsupported. Unfortunately, he was forced to concede ruefully that that image was reflective more of reality than pretense; in addition to the agony of his gouged and lacerated back, every muscle in his body seemed bruised and aching, and the mere act of spooning his food to his mouth seemed to require more energy than his usual morning jog.

Despite his physical discomforts, Steve was grateful for the momentary respite he was experiencing from Cletus' malevolent attentions. Cletus was outside devising booby traps and alarms to plant along the road and path leading to the cabin to ensure that the Baxters would have advance warning of anyone who might be approaching their hideout. Steve had gathered from their conversation that Cletus was less concerned with the possibility of a rescue attempt than with the possibility of someone straying by. Steve wasn't sure if he was more disturbed by the older Baxter's maliciously smug certainty that this place couldn't be connected to him or by his contemptuous disregard for the damage his traps might do to an innocent wanderer. He could only hope that, wherever they were, there wouldn't be any kids likely to come hiking along to stumble unwittingly into the path of Cletus' brutality.

Grimly recognizing that there was nothing he could do to help anyone else in his current situation, Steve decided that his first priority was to ensure that he managed to survive that brutality himself. Cletus was obviously intent on literally beating him into submission, and Steve was forced to accept that, considering his already weakened condition and the disadvantages of being outnumbered, unarmed, and physically restrained, further attempts at defying his tormentor's commands would only result in him being so incapacitated that any escape would be completely impossible. Reluctantly, therefore, he concluded that his best plan would be to appear to be sufficiently cowed and weakened that his captors would not feel it necessary to inflict any further significant injury, allowing him time to heal enough to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself to get away.

That it was imperative that he manage to free himself Steve did not doubt. He had had ample opportunity during the long, pain-filled night to consider the alternatives. He knew that his father would be using all his considerable ingenuity and resourcefulness to come up with a way to get him back, but Steve didn't see how he could possibly succeed. Having investigated the case against Tucker, Steve was convinced of the boy's guilt – which pretty much ruled out the possibility of Mark proving him innocent. And Steve was under no illusions that the police or the DA would agree to releasing the teen merely to save a detective's life; Steve himself would not have approved of such an action. Not to mention the fact that Steve didn't believe that Cletus had any intention of freeing his captive even if his demands were met. The Baxters were now guilty of kidnapping and assaulting a police officer, as well as more minor offenses, such as interfering with an investigation, obstruction of justice, extortion, etc. And since there was no doubt either of their identity or culpability, Steve really didn't think they'd leave him alive to serve as principal witness, especially considering the senior Baxter's total disregard for law or life. No, being released did not appear to be a serious option.

That left only the possibilities of rescue or escape. Steve didn't hold out a great deal of hope for a rescue either, however. His father's first priority, having been issued the ultimatum of clearing Tucker or losing his own son, would be to look into the case and see if there was anything that might conceivably support the idea that the boy was innocent. If anyone could find such indications in what otherwise appeared to be an open-and-shut case, Steve knew it would be Mark. However, the process of reviewing all the existing evidence and testimony, and searching, however determinedly (not to mention desperately), for a new solution to the case, would be a time-consuming one. And not only was Steve not sure how long he would last in this captivity – even if he were capable of sustaining the impression of beaten submissiveness well enough and long enough to avoid the potentially fatal injury Cletus' uncontrollable anger was quite capable of inflicting – he seriously doubted that Cletus would patiently endure a protracted investigation. Baxter was quite likely to take out his impatience on Steve, probably resulting in permanent injury or death for his captive – an outcome that Steve found totally unacceptable.

Of course, the other factor that rendered waiting for rescue unacceptable was the knowledge of what this situation had to be doing to Mark. Steve knew that the emotional anguish his father was experiencing had to rival his own physical agonies. Mark could not actually know the degree of abuse his son was suffering, but he was neither stupid nor naïve. The Baxter family history was littered with episodes of violent rages; despite Donald's assurances to the contrary, Mark would know that his son was likely to become the victim of one or more of them before this chapter ended. And added to the concern and anguish over Steve's physical pain, which parental affection would more likely exaggerate than minimize in imagination, would be the inevitable guilt that the Baxters had dumped on him by predicating Steve's survival and condition on Mark's success at an impossible task. Steve knew what it would do to his father if he failed to survive this mess; he refused to let that happen.

The squeaking of the cabin door opening interrupted Steve's musings, and he tensed automatically in anticipation of whatever blow or punishment Cletus would undoubtedly inflict for the crime of 'dawdling' over his breakfast. However, Donald entered alone, automatically swinging his rifle in Steve's direction as the captive struggled to rise to his feet. Steve froze, spreading his hands placatingly, holding the bowl slightly in front of him to indicate that he was merely planning on bringing it to the rudimentary sink. Donald relaxed a little and waved the gun in a gesture indicating that Steve should proceed. Steve painfully straightened, grimacing as his muscles and back protested the movement, and stiffly maneuvered himself over to the sink, washing out his bowl and putting it away without comment.

"You'd best get to cleaning those windows," Donald ordered, casting a nervous eye towards the door. "Pa's going to expect to find 'em all done by the time he gets back."

Steve resolutely tried to keep his voice uninflected as he looked around for any cleaning supplies and asked, "What am I supposed to clean them with?"

"You grab a bunch of those old newspapers," Donald instructed, pointing to box of ancient, yellowing paper sitting to the side of the fireplace. "I'll get the ammonia." As Steve gathered a supply of the papers, Donald went outside and returned in a moment with a small pail of water into which he splashed a generous dollop of ammonia. Steve was mildly amused to note that his captor kept a wary eye on him as he poured the ammonia, careful to maintain a safe distance. The precaution struck him as distinctly unnecessary, since even if he were capable of moving swiftly enough at the moment to grab the ammonia with the intent of disabling his opponent by splashing it in his eyes, he wouldn't be able to go anywhere – he was still chained to the wall. And he had learned yesterday that succumbing to the urge to lash out at his captors before he had a real chance to escape would only cause him further agony and would hinder his chances to actually get away. So Steve accepted the cleaning solution with apparent docility and turned to begin the task of cleaning away years of crusted-on grime and filth.

As he dipped the newspaper in the ammonia solution and rubbed it across the window, smearing newsprint all over his hands in the process, Steve had a sudden flash of memory of himself as a very small boy watching his mother clean windows in the same way. There were no convenient spray bottles of already-formulated window cleaner back then, and his mother had claimed that cloths left too much lint behind. He still remembered trying to help, only to discover that for each bit of window he cleaned, he left ink-smudged handprints covering the surrounding surfaces. Crestfallen by discovering that his attempts to help were only resulting in more work, he had been bordering on tears, only to be distracted by his father, who had solemnly told him that Mommy had been specially trained in this particular procedure, but that they had a special job that they could really use his help with. He had then been diverted to helping his father measure and cut shelving paper with which to line the kitchen cabinets, and he had been very proud of the resulting, somewhat uneven, slightly jagged-edged results. His parents had actually left that paper lining the cabinets for several years before replacing it, too, he thought, remembering with affectionate gratitude their sensitivity to his feelings and their gentle encouragement of whatever he tried to do.

The contrast between the love and support he had always known from his parents and the harshness and abuse that characterized the relationships between the generations of Baxters was as stark and vivid as between the warm brightness of a tropical afternoon and the frigid darkness of an arctic night. The idea of his father deliberately harming him in any way was completely inconceivable. Even at his most rebellious and defiant stages of adolescence, when the temptation to smack him must have felt almost irresistible, he thought, his father had never laid a finger on him. Mark was quite capable of finding alternative means of discipline, Steve reflected with a brief flash of rueful humor, recalling some of his dad's more creative punishments. But never had Mark failed to make clear that it was the behavior, not Steve himself, that was unacceptable. His hold on his son was not one of fear or even of obligation, but a mutual love and respect that survived all aggravations, misunderstandings, and conflicts.

The sharpness of the pains that flared along his back provided first-hand experience of the very different approach Cletus Baxter took toward ensuring that his family's behavior was acceptable to him. His methods were as different as his motivation; he was not concerned with providing guidance but with maintaining control, and his weapons were fear and pain. And just as the pattern of trust and respect between Steve and Mark continued and grew into his adulthood, so the pattern of fear and submission continued with Donald and Cletus. Surreptitiously observing Donald as he scrubbed at the windows, Steve noted that the younger Baxter seemed to be uncomfortable with his role as jailor, making an occasional aborted movement as if to help when Steve had a hard time opening a particularly resistant window, his muscles and back protesting the strain, causing him to wince as pain flared sharply, but always pulling back with that furtive, nervous glance toward the door. Apparently, Donald was of a more humane disposition than his father, but was either sufficiently afraid of him or sufficiently habituated to submitting to his orders to be unwilling to go against him.

On the other hand, Steve reflected, Donald's obvious discomfort with his father's brutal treatment of their hostage might indicate that there was a chance of establishing some sort of a rapport with him. As Donald poured himself a cup of coffee, Steve asked with careful casualness, "Mind if I have a cup? Or is that against the rules?"

After a momentary hesitation, Donald shrugged and poured a second cup, bringing it over to Steve. He watched as Steve carefully stretched before taking the beverage, easing his aching muscles.

"If ya just do what Pa wants, it'll save ya a lot of hurt," he said gruffly. "He just wants to make sure you don't give us no trouble."

Steve just managed to stifle a snort of skepticism. He didn't want to alienate Donald now. "And what do you want?" he asked levelly.

"I just want to help my boy," Donald replied.

"And you think kidnapping a police officer and holding him hostage is the best way to do that?" Again Steve fought to keep his voice free of sarcasm.

"It's the only way," Donald asserted. "Tucker didn't kill that boy, but you cops won't look for anybody else. Whenever there's trouble, it's always the people like us who get blamed."

"What makes you so sure that Tucker didn't kill Rico?" Steve asked. "The evidence…"

"Evidence!" snarled Donald hotly. "The evidence don't mean squat. Anybody could plant 'evidence' – maybe even the cops themselves. 'Evidence' has gotten lotsa people convicted of stuff they didn't do. Tucker's a good kid; he was makin' somethin' of himself, was even maybe gonna go to college. He didn't kill nobody."

"Look, I can understand that you want to help your son," Steve said, trying to maintain a tone of calm reason. "But you know that he has a history of violence, and Rico had been hassling him and bullying him…"

"That Rico was a no-good son of a bitch," interrupted Donald. "But that don't mean Tucker killed him. Yeah he got in fights; a man's got to be able to stick up for himself. But cold-blooded murder's different. Tucker wouldn't do that. And since nobody else was going to help him, we've got to do it ourselves."

"Even if Tucker is innocent," Steve attempted to reason, "there are better ways to help him than committing a felony yourself."

"A man's got to protect his own flesh and blood," Donald stated with conviction, "and that's what we're doing. And that's what your pa'll do too. Now at least he'll be out lookin' for the real killer. And by what I hear, he's real good at findin' things out."

"What if he can't find anything to clear Tucker?" Steve asked. "Then what?"

"He'd better find something," growled a deep voice from the doorway. Startled, Steve and Donald turned to see Cletus entering the cabin, his expression grimly determined. "Or he'll find out what it feels like to have his family taken away from him." Striding over to Steve, he snatched the coffee mug out of his hand and prodded him deliberately in the back, grinning as Steve hissed in pain. "Now get back to work," he ordered. He watched as Steve returned to the windows, picking up the wads of newspaper to resume the washing.

"Besides," the older man added smugly, as he headed over to get himself some coffee and food, "he don't hafta prove the boy didn't do it. He just has 'ta muddy up the case enough to get the boy off."

As Steve continued scrubbing the glass, he frowned over the suggestion that Mark could deliberately attempt to confuse the case in an attempt to sabotage a conviction, even if he were unconvinced of Tucker's innocence. It was true that, if Mark did believe that someone other than Tucker had murdered Rico, but was unable to make a compelling case against someone else, he was still quite capable of uncovering enough inconsistencies or bits of evidence and theory that might muddle the prosecution's case sufficiently to prevent the youth's conviction. But he would never, Steve was sure, deliberately aid in the acquittal of someone he believed to be guilty. Which could bode very ill for the outcome of this adventure.

On the other hand, something that Donald had said had resonated more strongly with Steve than his captor could have anticipated. Steve had painful personal experience with the truth of the statement that evidence had convicted innocent people before. Mark's conviction of murder and subsequent sentencing to death row after being framed by the Trainors was still a hauntingly vivid memory, even several years later. All the evidence then had seemed to point with damning certainty to his father's guilt; was it possible that the evidence against Tucker was just as wrong? If it was, he reflected ruefully, the Baxters had certainly enlisted the assistance of perhaps the one man who could and would pick through the evidence and testimony to uncover any flaws or inconsistencies in the case against him.

"You know," Steve said softly to Donald after Cletus went back outside, "you didn't have to kidnap me to get my father to help you. You could have gone to him and explained the situation."

Donald snorted in disbelief. "Oh right. And he'd have just jumped right up, eager to help a bunch of nobodies he didn't even know."

"He probably would," Steve affirmed. "It wouldn't be the first time. He'd at least have looked into it. And if he thought that there was any chance that Tucker was innocent, he'd never let it go until he was convinced that we knew the truth."

"And why would he do all that for us?" asked Donald skeptically.

"Because he believes in justice; because he would never stand by and see somebody convicted of something he didn't do if there was any chance he could help him."

"Justice," huffed Donald. "What does somebody like him know about justice? Sittin' in his fancy home with his fancy clothes and his money and status protecting him – the 'justice' he knows is a whole lot diff'rent than what folks like us get."

"Not as different as you think," Steve replied, deliberately holding Donald's gaze, his own steady and intent. "He knows about miscarriages of justice; he's lived it. He was framed and convicted of a crime he didn't commit; he wouldn't let that happen to someone else – especially not a kid." Steve saw a flicker of something in Donald's eyes, and thought that perhaps he was getting through to him. Pursuing his advantage, he continued, "Look, it's not too late to stop this before it goes too far. I understand you're trying to help your son. But if you do it this way, what happens even if you do get Tucker released? You and your father will be arrested, and what happens to your son then? He's still under age, and his only family will be in jail; you think that's what he wants? He'll end up in foster care or a juvenile home. Is that what you want for him?"

"The important thing is to get my boy out of that jail," Donald insisted. "After that, well, we can take care of ourselves."

"How?" Steve demanded. "By going on the run? Is that any better for Tucker? A while back you said that he was going to make something of himself, go on to college. You think he can do that as a fugitive?"

In the silence that met that query, they heard the squeak of the door opening, and Cletus reentered the cabin, effectively ending the conversation. Turning back to his chores, Steve hoped that, just maybe, he had taken the first steps toward shifting Donald's certainty that following this plan was his only option.


	5. Dawn of a New Day

**Chapter Five: Dawn of a New Day**

Unable to stand lying on his right side a minute longer, Steve rolled carefully onto his stomach pillowing his head in his arms. It wasn't his favorite sleeping position, but he didn't figure he'd be sleeping much more anyway. He'd been awakened sometime during the night by thunder and, soon after, another flaw of the dilapidated cabin had come to light. Directly over his head, the roof had begun leaking. He had tried to shift away from the wetness only to discover two more wet spots on the floor from other leaks. Curling into a fetal position to avoid the worst of it, he'd drifted back to sleep listening to the storm and dreaming of being warm and dry in his own bed.

The hardness of the floor and the dampness of his clothing were vivid reminders he wasn't home. Steve longed for a hot shower. He hadn't been given the opportunity to bathe yet, and he hadn't seen Cletus or Donald take a bath yet either. _Cletus must figure if one bath a week was enough for Ma and Pa Ingalls, then it's good enough for us too, _Steve thought sarcastically, recalling the "Little House on the Prairie" books. In his mind, he could still hear his dad reading them aloud to Carol. It had been a nightly ritual between them for many years. Steve smiled at the memory. He'd be willing to bet Cletus had never read aloud to Donald.

_Even when there was no food in Walnut Grove and Pa couldn't find any game, Ma could still find a way to make a decent meal, _Steve thought grumpily as his stomach rumbled. Dinner the night before had consisted of stale white bread and some type of canned mystery meat. Even _his_ unsophisticated palate had balked at that. Steve shuddered. He hoped he wouldn't get botulism from eating the meat. That's all he needed on top of all his aches and pains. Forcing his mind away from thoughts of a big plate of ribs with extra sauce, he turned his attention to reviewing his escape plan.

His options were limited, Steve knew, and his chances for successfully getting away from Donald and Cletus were slim, but he had to try. He was tired of being the victim; of having no control over what was going to happen next. It was high time he forced the action. The only time he had any freedom was when they unlocked his shackle and let him use the outhouse. He'd have to make a break for it then. Steve felt he was at a disadvantage without a weapon and decided he had to try and grab one as he made his escape. Cletus held his rifle with the deceptive ease that came with being an experienced hunter or marksman. Steve knew he'd have little chance of getting it away from him, and that he should try for Donald's rifle. It was obvious he didn't have the same confidence handling a weapon his father did.

The other factor Steve knew he had to take into account was the weather. Without any knowledge of where they were, he'd be running totally on instinct. He wanted to avoid the dirt road that Cletus had booby-trapped. Even though it was his best chance of getting to help, he couldn't afford the risk of setting one of them off. No, he was going to have to take his chances by going deeper into the surrounding woods and hope he could find somewhere to hide until he got his bearings. All of this would be easier if the sun was shining. For one thing, he'd be able to use the sun's position in the sky to guide him. More importantly, in his weakened condition, prolonged exposure to a cold rain would sap his limited energy. Satisfied he'd done all the advanced planning he could, Steve sighed and tried to find a more comfortable position on the wood floor while awaiting Cletus' wake up call.

_Sloans' Deck_

On the other side of the room, Donald awoke from an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of courtrooms, judges, and a jury of 12 cops proclaiming him guilty for the kidnapping and death of Lieutenant Steve Sloan. The cop's father, Mark Sloan, had been in the courtroom too and had stared at him with hard eyes as the verdict had been read. _You promised not to hurt my son if I helped you_, the white haired doctor had yelled while pointing an accusing finger at Donald. _I did what you asked, but you still took my son from me!_

Donald lay quietly trying to slow his erratic breathing. He didn't want to wake the cop or his pa. The cop needed all the rest he could get to recover from the beatings inflicted by his pa and if Cletus was asleep it meant he couldn't abuse them. Even as an adult, Donald stilled feared his pa's fearsome temper. Truce or no truce between them, it hadn't taken Donald long to figure out that Cletus' way of solving any problem or disagreement was still with violence or with the threat of violence. He'd done his best to shield Tucker from as much as of it as possible, but he was afraid his best hadn't been good enough. Tucker was in jail and he and Pa had kidnapped a cop. _Can life get any worse?_ Donald thought. _Sure, there's a good chance we could all end up in jail. Maybe they'll give me and Tucker and Pa adjoinin' cells._

A slight noise from across the room had Donald risking moving to check on their prisoner. All seemed to be quiet. He must've heard the cop shifting from his side to his stomach. Donald thought again about the lacerations on the cop's back. It would probably be a while before he could sleep comfortably on his back even if they didn't get infected. He'd have to try and remember to put more salt on them when Pa went to the outhouse.

Their conversation from the morning before replayed itself in Donald's mind. The cop had sounded sure his pa would've helped them clear Tucker if they'd just gone to him and asked. Could it have been that easy? In Donald's experience nobody helped nobody without wantin' somethin' in return, and he knew he had nothin' the doctor would want. He couldn't forget the look of pain in the cop's eyes when he'd described how his pa had been sent to jail for a crime he hadn't committed. If the story was true, and Donald had no reason to doubt it wasn't, then maybe the fancy doctor did know a little bit about life's harsher realities.

Donald shifted uneasily in his bed. The love the cop had for his pa was obvious in the way his eyes crinkled and his voice changed when he talked about him. Donald couldn't imagine having a relationship like that with Cletus. His pa would consider it a sign of a weak man. The only kind of weakness Pa liked to see was the pain and fear of those he tormented.

One thing for certain, Donald knew his boy hadn't killed that other kid. He'd been determined to do whatever it took to make sure Tucker didn't spend the rest of his life in jail. That's why he and Pa had done what they'd done. Now, though, he was having second thoughts. Was this the right thing? Was there really a way out? The cop had seemed sure when he'd said it wasn't too late to stop all of this before it went too far. Donald wasn't keen on spendin' the rest of his life in jail, but if confessin' to the crime himself meant Tucker went free then he'd do it. Pa wouldn't be happy about it, but maybe he should call the doctor and try talkin' to him. If he was as reasonable a man as the cop said, then maybe there was a chance the cop could live and none of the Baxter clan would end up on death row.

_Sloans' Deck_

Tucker huddled on his bunk at the Los Angeles Men's Central Jail. He'd tried to act tough in front of the doctor but, in reality, being in jail scared him. He especially hated the hours around dawn. The safety of sleep was gone and the anxiety of being thrust among the other hardened prisoners was nearly overwhelming. Making matters worse, his small size made him easy prey for some of the bigger, meaner prisoners. Tucker had heard their veiled threats and innuendo when he'd arrived. Perhaps recognizing his naiveté, his cellmate, a big, tough ex-biker, had taken Tucker under his wing and so far had protected him from their threats. Tucker wasn't sure what was going to happen to him when his protector was transferred to another facility in just a few short days.

_"Does this person also love you, if they're willing for you to take the fall for them?"_

The doctor's question echoed in Tucker's mind. The day before he'd dismissed it as unimportant. He'd been sure of the answer, and the reasons for his actions had been clear in his own mind. In the early morning light, the answer was no longer as clear. Was he doing this for the right reasons or was he trying to win the love and approval of someone who could never give him what he needed? Tucker wanted more out of life than his pa and grampa had. He'd been looking forward to graduating, thinking about applying to a trade school or even college, but none of that would happen if he was in jail. In the end, he'd be no better than Gramps or Pa.

Reaching under his pillow, Tucker found the small card the doctor had handed him. He could still see the pain in the man's eyes as he had pleaded with him to tell him anything about where Gramps and Pa had taken his son. Tucker wondered what it would be like to be loved like that. Would his pa be willing to plead for his return if the situation was reversed? Sadly, he decided he couldn't say for sure. Tucker fingered the card thoughtfully. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk to the doctor again after all.

_Sloans' Deck_

The frown marring Cheryl's forehead only served to accentuate the stress and exhaustion lining her face. It had been nearly 72 hours since Cletus and Donald Baxter had grabbed Steve. Now, it seemed, his father had disappeared too.

Cheryl had driven to the beach house directly after the morning briefing. Her reasons for coming were nearly equal in importance as far as she was concerned. She wanted to personally update Mark on what they had learned in their search for the Baxters' property, and she also wanted to check on his emotional state. Cheryl suspected he was barely holding it together although he did a good job of trying to hide it behind a mask of determination and composure.

Pivoting, Cheryl scanned the beach again hoping for any sign of Mark. He hadn't answered when she'd rung the front bell. His car was in the driveway so it was unlikely he'd made a quick trip to the store. She didn't think food was much of a priority for him anyway. Thinking that maybe he'd gone for a walk if he hadn't been able to sleep, she'd crossed the sand hoping to catch sight of him in the distance. Failing in that, Cheryl had even checked the secluded dune Steve visited when he was troubled by something. It seemed logical Mark would go somewhere he'd feel close to Steve, but she'd been disappointed to find it empty.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Cheryl took a deep breath. Her anxiety over Steve's disappearance and how the Baxters might be treating him was clouding her normal good judgment. _Doctor Sloan could be in the shower or could even be sleeping, _she rationalized either of which would explain why he hadn't answered her summons. She hated to keep ringing the bell and risk disturbing him if he'd finally been able to get some much-needed rest. However, knowing sleep didn't come easily for him when Steve was in trouble, Cheryl considered it highly unlikely he'd be sleeping soundly enough to sleep through the doorbell.

Cheryl walked around the house a second time pausing when she reached the patio of Steve's downstairs apartment. She eyed the sliding glass door thoughtfully. If Mark wanted to go somewhere he could feel close to Steve, his apartment would be a good place. He may not even be able to hear the bell down there. Stepping up to the window, Cheryl cupped her hand next to her face to block the light so she could get a better look inside. She breathed a silent sigh of relief when she could make out Mark's form on the couch.

Not wanting to startle the doctor, Cheryl rapped gently on the glass. She watched as Mark stirred and sat up looking around for the source of the noise. It was obvious in his disoriented state he hadn't recognized the sound so Cheryl knocked again a little louder. This time he immediately swung in the direction of the sliding glass door his face registering surprise at the sight of her looking through the glass. With more agility than she would've expected for a man who'd been sleeping on a couch, Mark rose and crossed the room to open the door.

"Hello, Doctor Sloan."

"Do you have news on Steve?"

Cheryl shook her head regretfully. "No, I'm sorry, there's not much new to report. The search for him and for the Baxter property is ongoing."

Mark finally seemed to realize Cheryl was still standing on the patio. "Oh, where are my manners? Come in." Stepping aside to let her enter, he looked around Steve's apartment. "I came down here the night before too," he admitted quietly. "This seems to be the only place I can sleep."

Cheryl heard the pain in Mark's voice and knew how hard it had been for the private man in front of her to admit just how much his son's absence distressed him. "You don't have to explain," she said, stroking his arm. "I know you're worried about Steve. I'm just glad you were able to get some rest."

Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, Mark said, "Let's go upstairs. Maybe some coffee and a shower will help clear away the cobwebs."

Cheryl followed Mark to the upper level of the house and into the kitchen. "Can I fix you a bite for breakfast while you freshen up?" she asked. "Some toast or maybe a bowl of oatmeal?"

Shaking his head, Mark said, "I don't have much of an appetite these days."

Cheryl could relate. Anything she'd tried to eat the past three days had tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She would've preferred to skip eating all together but knew she had to eat to keep up her strength. "When's the last time you had anything besides coffee?"

Mark thought about it. "I don't really remember," he admitted.

"Then you need to eat something. No arguments, Doctor Sloan," she said firmly when Mark would've protested. "When we find Steve, I can guarantee the very first thing he's going to ask me after making sure we've got Cletus and Donald locked up is if you're okay. I want to be able to tell him truthfully that outside of the tremendous emotional and mental strain you've been under that you're fine and very anxious to see him. If that's not the case . . . well, Steve and I are partners, and we don't lie to each other."

"Has anyone told you how stubborn you are?"

Cheryl laughed. "Your son, every time I don't let him get his way."

That brought a small smile to Mark's face. "Okay," he sighed, "just a little oatmeal then." He paused on his way out of the kitchen and turned back to look at Cheryl. "Thank you. I'm glad you're Steve's partner and his friend."

Mark was gone before Cheryl could reply, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. At the moment, with her partner missing, she didn't feel like she deserved those kind words. Firmly pushing thoughts of the Baxter clan out of her mind, she concentrated on finding the oatmeal, a pan and a spoon and starting Mark's breakfast. She was glad to see the familiar box of oats on the shelf. It would be more nourishing than that runny, instant stuff that passed for oatmeal. Cheryl was just dishing the piping hot contents of the pan into a bowl when Mark returned.

Taking his seat at the table, Mark eyed the bowl warily. He really didn't know if he'd be able to get even one spoonful of oatmeal past the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat. Not wanting to disappoint Cheryl, he gamely picked up the spoon to take a bite and was surprised when the cereal slid down easily. Encouraged, he took another bite.

Pleased he hadn't pushed the bowl aside, Cheryl watched in silence as Mark ate. She'd eaten a lot of oatmeal as a child. Her grandmother had been convinced there wasn't a problem in the world that couldn't be solved over a bowl of the hot cereal. _Well, Gran, _Cheryl thought, _this problem can't be solved by oatmeal alone, but at least it seems to be providing some comfort and nourishment. I suppose that's a start._

Cheryl was jerked out of her musings by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Instinctively, she slid her hand under her jacket and rested it on the butt of her gun. She didn't think Cletus or Donald would be bold enough to confront the doctor in his own home, but she wasn't going to take a chance on being surprised by them. When she heard the voices of Jesse and Amanda, she practically sagged in relief.

The doctors wore twin expressions of surprise at the sight of Cheryl perched on a stool at the counter, but they recovered quickly. Spying the nearly empty bowl on the table, Jesse flashed her a grin and a quick thumbs up behind Mark's back. "We came to see if you needed anything," he told Mark, "but it looks like you're in good hands."

"Did you get any sleep?" Amanda asked, anxiously.

"Some."

"Any news?" Jesse asked.

Cheryl repeated what she'd told Mark when she'd arrived. "A couple of clerks and some off duty cops are searching the old property records that aren't computerized."

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

"Convince Tucker to tell us what he knows - " Cheryl was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She looked down at the caller identification. "It's the precinct. I have to take this," she said, moving into the living room.

Mark tried to concentrate on what Jesse and Amanda were saying, but his eyes kept straying toward the living room. Cheryl was spending a long time on the phone. He wondered if that meant there was news about Steve. Finally hearing her footsteps, Mark looked up eagerly, but her expression gave nothing away.

"Is it Steve?" he asked, hoarsely.

Cheryl appeared to choose her words carefully. "One of the detectives managed to track down a sibling of Cletus'."

"Really?"

"You don't have to sound so surprised, Doctor Travis," Cheryl said lightly. "We are detectives."

Jesse flushed. "Sorry. It's just that the files said Cletus stayed behind while all his siblings took off for greener pastures. I didn't realize he had contact with any of them."

"He doesn't. The sister said she hadn't seen him in almost 20 years. Apparently it wasn't a very amicable meeting either. According to the detective who talked to her, she used the words mean-spirited and cruel to describe Cletus' behavior toward Donald."

"Sounds about right for Cletus," Amanda commented. "Did she know anything about family property or somewhere Cletus liked to go?"

"Well, as you know, when Horace brought the family to California, they settled around Bakersfield. The settlement camp they ended up in was south of there and as the area grew more populated the Baxter clan moved south again looking for some solitude."

"How far south? Was she able to give you a location?"

"More of a general idea rather than a specific location."

"Where? What did she say?" Mark could barely conceal his impatience.

"From what she described, the land the family had is now somewhere in the Los Padres National Forest."

"That covers acres!" Jesse exclaimed. "She couldn't be more specific?"

Cheryl shook her head. "She was a teenager when she left home and never looked back. Even if she could remember, the area has changed."

"Wait a minute, how could Cletus Baxter have property in Los Padres National Forest?" Amanda asked. "I would think the government would have something to say about that."

"The likelihood of Cletus actually owning the property is slim," Cheryl said. "It's probably more like a case of squatter's rights. Doctor Travis is right. The forest covers acres. There just aren't enough rangers to thoroughly patrol it all so Cletus could very well have a shack deep in the forest and nobody would know anything about it."

"So how are we going to search all that land?"

"Captain Newman is contacting the Forest Service to help us devise a search plan. One thing's for sure. We're not going to be able to do it all on foot. We're going to have to have air support."

The foursome fell silent each contemplating the time and effort it would take to first organize the search and then carry it out. Nobody seemed to want to voice what they were all thinking. That the search may take longer than Steve had.

"Have you found out anything more about the truck that was outside of Tucker's school the morning of the murder?" Mark asked, attempting to focus on something more positive.

"We checked with all of Tucker's teachers, the principal, and the counselor, and none of them had requested a meeting that would bring either Donald or Cletus to the school. Their names weren't on the sign-in book in the office and nobody remembers seeing them either."

"Most schools require visitors to sign in at the school office," Amanda said, "but some enforce it better than others. If you don't want to sign in, it's not that hard to wait until the secretary is busy and slip by without being noticed."

"Well, if one of them was there, it wasn't Donald. He was at work and his boss will vouch for him."

"Is the boss trustworthy?"

"Appears to be. We don't have any reason to doubt his word."

"That points to Cletus as the one who was there."

"Looks that way, but we won't know for sure until we pick him up and talk to him."

"And in order to do that we need to find the property."

"I have to go, but I'll call as soon as I have any new information," Cheryl promised.

Mark stood. "I want to be at the meeting with the rangers."

Cheryl had been waiting for him to say that. It made what she had to say all that much harder. "Doctor Sloan, I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."

"Why not?"

"Captain Newman specifically stated he doesn't want you at the planning meeting. I warned him you wouldn't be happy about being excluded," she added, anticipating Mark's protest, "but he was adamant."

"Did he say why?"

"He didn't volunteer a reason, and it's not a good idea for me to question his decision. If I make any waves, he may pull me off this case and that's a risk I can't take."

Mark sighed heavily. He didn't want Cheryl risking her position on this case or being subjected to disciplinary action because of him. It went against every fiber of his being, but he would abide by Captain Newman's wishes.

"What about after? When the meeting is over?" Jesse asked. "Can we be at the staging area?"

"He didn't say anything about that, so if you show up, I don't think he'll say too much. Anyway, it's not unusual for a missing person's family to be at the staging area waiting for news."

After seeing Cheryl to the door, Amanda returned to the kitchen where Jesse was still sitting with Mark. "We need to leave too," she reminded him.

Jesse got up from the table. "You going to be okay here alone?"

Mark nodded and Amanda kissed his cheek. "Call us if you hear from Cheryl or if you need anything in the meantime."

Once Amanda's car was out of sight, Mark returned to the house. He picked up the phone and carried it with him out to the deck. Settling into a chair, he let the sun warm him and the gentle lapping of the waves soothe his battered spirit. He forced his mind to go blank as he waited for the phone to ring.

The call from Cheryl finally came in the early afternoon. Representatives from the LAPD, local sheriff's department and U.S. Forest Service had plotted the most likely places to look for Cletus' hide out. A helicopter from the sheriff's department and two off duty police officers who had pilots' licenses would be in the air within two hours. The Forest Service was in the process of contacting several civilian pilots who assisted in search and rescue missions to provide additional support. Anything the air patrols thought looked promising would be checked out by groups on foot.

Mark was comforted by the familiar routine as he methodically checked and packed his medical bag. He'd been on the sidelines long enough. Nothing was going to keep him from being at the staging area and in a plane if he could manage it. _Don't give up now, Son, _Mark thought. _We may not be any closer to solving Rico's murder and clearing Tucker, but we're getting closer to you._


	6. Breaking Away

**Chapter Six: Breaking Away**

Donald lay still and quiet, listening to the sound of the rain through the small hours of the morning. Just before dawn, as the sound lightened to a dripping from the eaves, he came to a decision.

It had been a long night, scant of sleep, as he turned things over and over in his brain. He glanced up from his battered mattress to the rope-strung cot that held his Pa, growling a steady string of snores. Pa usually slept light, with the ears of a lynx and his hand on his gun, but he'd been pulling on a bottle the night before and that always put him under - the snores were a sure sign that he was sleeping hard. There'd never be a better time - if he was going to do this thing then he'd better do it now.

Softly, slowly, he rose into sitting position and waited a moment to see if anyone stirred. _Nothing_. Satisfied, he levitated to his feet and waited another second. He had a lifetime of experience at making himself invisible and it stood him in good stead now. After another short wait, he padded noiselessly to the open cabin door.

He stood just outside, feeling the damp ground squish under his feet and pulling on his boots, staring up at the overcast sky - darkness heaped against darkness - then at the ground. He prodded the muddy earth with his boot toe until he found a stick that was still a little dry, protected by the slight overhang of the roof. He squatted by the stone that marked the entryway and, pulling a lighter from his pocket, lit one end of the stick, blowing on it until it smoldered to ember. While he watched the stick sputter, his plans solidified in his head.

He ran a hand over the stone, brushing it free of leaves and needles, then pressed the burnt end of the stick against it and wrote, _Pa. Gone for supleyes. Back soon. D_.

Pa would be fit to be tied o' course, and lookin' for someone to take it out on. The cop would be the only one available and he felt bad about that, but it couldn't be helped. And if everything went according to plan, well, this would be the best for everybody, in the end. Cop'd just have to hang tough for a bit. He seemed tough. It would be all right.

Almost convinced, he stood again and paced his silent way to the truck. He took it out of 'park' and pushed it soundlessly forward over the rain-softened ground, steering it away from the dirt road and Pa's booby traps. When he thought he had it far enough away to be safe, he slid onto the torn seat and started the engine.

There was no trail at all here, but he knew this place like he knew his own name and that truck was like him - toughened and unaccustomed to niceties like paved or even dirt roads. The pickup rocked its shockless way over the lumpy ground, finally bouncing down a suicidal incline until it came to rest at the edge of the highway. Only then did Donald allow himself a grin of satisfaction. So far, so good. If his luck held out, he could reach his destination sometime this afternoon.

_Sloans' Deck_

It was an unfortunate stretch that landed his foot in a stray puddle and woke him from a surprisingly deep sleep, and he lay for a moment, startled and disoriented. He noticed that he was lying on his stomach, his head pillowed in his arms, a position he rarely slept in; not since he was a kid and he had stayed up to watch forbidden horror movies late at night.

No matter how sure he had been that he was too grown up for the movie to get to him, he had always ended up sleeping on his stomach afterwards, with his head buried under the pillow and the blankets over his head. It had made him feel safe. He smiled grimly at the memory. Here it only made him feel stiff.

He shifted his forehead on his arms, wincing as he inadvertently nudged the spot where Donald had clipped him with the butt of his gun. He sighed gustily. _Still, a blanket sounded pretty good about now._ He stretched his legs out further, trying to get the kinks out, ignoring the tiny pools of water that had collected here and there beneath him, winced again as the manacle on his ankle grated at the raw skin underneath. _Actually, even the horror movies were sounding pretty good compared to this. _

He risked a surreptitious glance in the direction of the mattress and cot, was surprised to find himself alone, the cabin empty. With a sigh of pleasure this time, he closed his eyes again. _Privacy_. That might be the thing he missed most of all.

The respite was brief, almost immediately interrupted by a bark of guttural swearing.

Steve grimaced. _Cletus_. That man sure did like to get an early start on breaking up the peace. He opened his eyes, considering the wisdom of getting up. Resignedly, he began the slow process of pushing himself into sitting position. His back flamed in protest, he felt some of the scabbing sores crack and seep. He sagged against the wall, trying to absorb the pain and get it under control, giving himself some time to catch his breath. He rested his forehead against the rough bark of the logs, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

_You know, Jess, I might not fight you too hard on some of those painkillers you like to hand out about now? They actually sound pretty good. _

What sounded even better was a little of Jesse's bright, smart-alecky company. He sure had a way of lightening up a rough moment. Or Amanda, with her soothing, playful presence. Of course, she'd probably be more likely to be in scolding maternal mode, buzzing around and making him comfortable, lecturing all the while. And then there was Dad…

_No. _His mind slid away from that. He had no desire to think of his Dad either with him in this situation or even finding him like this. _Sorry, Dad, but this would be a pretty hard one to downplay… _

"You!"

He froze, then hissed in disgust. It irritated him how quickly he had learned to be still at the mere sound of Cletus' voice, to avoid notice . Like a cornered rabbit, he jeered himself. He'd sure never been a man to hide in the background before.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to meet Cletus' wild gaze calmly.

Cletus had his ubiquitous companion, the shotgun, in one hand and one cheek was pouched out by a tobacco chaw, twisting his scowl into a grotesque semblance of a fairytale gnome or troll.

He looks like a cartoon, Steve thought idly. Under any other circumstances, it would almost be funny.

The one eye narrowed to a tiny slit over the tobacco stuffed cheek. "You kin read?"

Steve tried not to look surprised at the question. "That's right."

Cletus jerked his head toward the door, and Steve obediently pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as leverage. He took a step forward to follow Cletus and was surprised when the floor gave an unexpected heave. He slapped one palm against the wall to catch himself, sucking in a steadying breath. _Hm_. He was not getting stronger. He needed to watch for an opportunity to escape while he was still able. Sticking close to the wall, he followed Cletus to the cabin doorway, half listening to the drag-rattle sound the chain made along the floor in time to his progress.

Cletus was pointing to the slab of stone that formed a sort of front step. "What's that say?"

Steve stared down at the scribbled black lines, fuzzy with the dampness of the stone, now recognized them as writing. "Um - it says, _Pa, gone for supplies, be back soon, D_."

Cletus glared at the scribbles, as though he expected to see something there that would show it was a trick, prove Steve a liar, but after a minute he grumbled, "Supplies. We _got_ supplies. Did I say to go get supplies? I did NOT. Someday that boy's gonna learn to mind me."

Steve felt something cold slide up his spine. The whole thing should have been funny, but somehow it was disturbing instead. He remained quiet, sneaking a look at the sky. Overcast, for the most part. The sun looked like it might try to peek through, but it hadn't yet.

"You obey your Pa, boy?"

Steve was not thrilled to be drawn into the conversation. He hesitated. "I respect my father. I'm a little old to obey him."

"Man never outgrows listening to his Pa. Always knows best." Cletus spit a stream of tobacco juice viciously at the wording on the stone.

"My father taught me to think for myself."

Cletus snorted. "Yeah, I'll bet that's what Donald thinks he's doin' - toolin' around in that truck with half a dozen police lookin' fer it. Dumber than a box of rocks sometimes, that boy."

"I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear that you think so." Steve could have bitten his tongue out, but it was too late.

Cletus' eyes narrowed at him. "I'll teach you to watch that mouth of yours yet, boy."

Steve stiffened, sending a ripple of fire down his back. It occurred to him suddenly that Cletus was in a temper, with only him as an unwilling volunteer to help relieve it. It wouldn't be an altogether bad idea if he _did_ learn to watch that mouth of his. Another thought occurred to him almost as quickly - if he and Cletus were all alone, the odds were even for a change - one on one. Oh, it wasn't the one he would have chosen to be left with, but it was still about the best chance he was going to get.

Without seeming to, he slid his eyes to the dilapidated outhouse, scanning for the distance to the tree line beyond. The forest stretched behind it on two sides. Impossible to know what led where and which was the better choice - he'd just have to get away and worry about that part later.

He wondered what was on today's chore list - maybe patching the roof? Which wouldn't be all bad, if it would earn him a dry bed. Of course, Cletus would have to unlock the shackle for an extended time to put him on the roof. Odds were he wouldn't risk it and besides, he obviously got much too much fun out of watching him drag that chain around.

"You gonna stand there dreaming all day, boy, or you gonna make yerself useful?"

Steve was jogged out of his brown study by Cletus' unmistakable whine. Knowing it wasn't his best choice, but somehow unable to stop himself, he leaned deeper into the door lintel and folded his arms over his chest. "What, no breakfast?"

It wasn't that he really thought that the scrawny portion of oatmeal would even begin to fill the yawning hole that had become his stomach, what he was really looking for was his morning trip to the outhouse, but he didn't want to draw Cletus' attention to his interest in it by mentioning it. Even if it didn't make him suspicious, Cletus was contrary enough to refuse to take him just because he'd asked.

Cletus' tooth-shy mouth curled in a sneer. "You want breakfast, then I guess you'd dang well better fix it - for both of us!"

The thought of what his family and friends would have to say if they heard that someone had actually requested to sample his culinary expertise made Steve smile slightly. Before it could even register what he had done or how unwise that was, the predictable response came. He never even saw the gun butt shoot out this time, only felt the pile-driver blow in his stomach, seemingly straight through to his spine. His knees buckled and he folded over them, wondering if he was going to lose what little there was in his stomach.

Just as he thought he might have things under control, another vicious blow caught him under the chin with a crack, snapping his head back, setting off a pyrotechnic display behind his eyes. The lights darkened to red as he landed hard on his savaged back, his legs doubled under him, and the world disappeared, blotted out by a rolling wave of pain that sucked at him like a current, dragging him under, breathless and blind. He might have cried out - he hoped not, but he might have - at the suddenness of it. He was fighting to find his breath, one hand fisting and unfisting on the floor beside him as he struggled to keep his tenuous grip on awareness, when Cletus' whine cut through the haze.

"No breakfast for you," he piped cheerfully. Steve set his teeth against the derisive nudge in his ribs that was Cletus' parting shot as he shuffled past him into the dim interior. "But you're still makin' mine."

Finally sure he wasn't going to go under, Steve ran his hands over his face, blotting at the chill slick of sweat that had sprung out there, then tried to prop himself up, to relieve his back and free his legs. Using the wall again, he got himself upright and sat on his heels for a minute, his head hanging, trying to rediscover his equilibrium.

I'll fix your breakfast all right, he breathed fiercely to himself. And breakfast cooked by me is just about what you deserve.

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark slammed the trunk after stowing his medical bag and froze, one hand still on the lid. For a moment he was convinced that too much coffee and too little sleep had finally caught up with him, then the shadow in the small stand of trees by the driveway spoke.

"Doc Sloan?" It wasn't really a question.

Mark nodded, closing his mouth as an afterthought. "That's right. And you're - "

"Donald Baxter."

The figure took a step forward and Mark got a better look at the grizzled residue of beard, the rumpled clothing, the quiet, determined eyes. He also got a better look at the long rifle, held casually across his chest.

_What could he want? Could he be taking him to Steve? Oh, Lord, Steve didn't need a doctor, did he? _"What can I do for you?" Donald took another step forward, in Mark's full vision now, though still hidden by the trees from the road. He lifted the rifle and pointed it with deadly indifference, then jerked his head toward Mark's car.

"Reckon we need to talk."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve placed the last of the meager supply of rudimentary dishware upside down on the counter to dry and wiped his hands on what was left of his shirt. He wondered how much time he had before Donald came back. There was no way of even guessing, and he still hadn't been offered his morning trip to the outhouse. Clicking his tongue in frustration, he braced himself against the sink, trying to loosen some of the tightness in his back.

Amazingly enough, Cletus had seemed to enjoy his attempt at oatmeal. Well, maybe "enjoy" was too strong a word, but he had eaten it without comment. Of course, it was really no more repulsive than any other meal they'd had so far. The man would probably eat garbage without complaining. And, he thought a little guiltily, at some point in his life, he probably had had to.

A grunt of pain exploded from him as something cold and hard jabbed unexpectedly at one of the broken scabs covering his back and he collapsed against the sink, lolling on his elbows. His brief moment of sympathy fled.

_Damn him. _

For the third time since he'd awoken, Steve struggled to get his breathing under control, to push away the pain. To hell with watching his mouth - it made no difference what he did or didn't do, said or didn't say - anything and everything was just a twisted excuse for Cletus to do whatever he felt like doing.

He was just a third-rate bully and there was no point in wasting any pity on him. Maybe he had suffered, but that was no excuse for taking it out on the entire world around him.

"You dreamin' again, boy?" Steve was really learning to hate the sound of that voice. "Reckon you're ready for your trip to the Necessary?"

It was so in line with Steve's own wishes that he had to hurry to control his expression, to keep it blank and indifferent. He met Cletus' gaze silently, but in his mind he was picturing the line of trees hemming in the outhouse on two sides.

"Well, shake a leg." Cletus prodded him again, in his much-abused abdomen this time. "Don't have all day. I got chores for you. Outside, this time."

Steve stared at him, wondering where he'd be able to secure his chain and manacle outside. Wonderful if he should take it into his head to keep him chained up outdoors like a dog, no matter the weather.

He moved forward before Cletus could be tempted to prod him again, was almost to the doorway when the chain suddenly pulled short and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall just in time. The sudden jerk tightened the abused skin on his back and cut into the abraded flesh at his ankle and he swallowed an exclamation of pain just in time. He closed his eyes for a minute to gather himself, then straightened his shoulders carefully and opened them again. He didn't really need to look to know that Cletus was standing on the chain, grinning snidely, but he looked anyway, meeting his eyes steadily, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing him riled.

"Shouldn't be in such a hurry, boy," Cletus cackled. "Cain't go nowhere 'til I've unlocked ya." He bent down to spin the combination lock and remove it, making a great show of dropping it in his pocket.

For a second Steve considered taking advantage of the situation to kick Cletus in the face and make a run for it, but he restrained himself. Too far from the trees. In his current state he'd probably never make it to cover before Cletus caught up with him. It could take him precious seconds to figure out how to work the ancient shotgun and then his chance would be over. No, it was better to wait until he was outside and close to cover. Too bad, because the thought of kicking Cletus in the face had a lot of appeal. He closed his eyes one more time and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning as Cletus peeled the iron shackle away from his ankle. Felt as though it took some of his skin with it.

"Well, go on - " Cletus nudged him with the gun again, high on the back of the shoulder this time in what must have been one of the open lacerations, because the barrel seemed to sink inside of him and poke bare bone. He moved forward, half-expecting to hear a sucking sound as the gun barrel pulled free of his flesh. He tried to keep one step ahead of the gun, his eyes forward, scoping the land.

No, he needed to choose his moment carefully and to husband his strength until then. And to hold on tight to his temper. Because if he ever got his hands on Cletus Baxter, he was going to wring his neck.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Here is good."

Mark pulled into the lookout just off the Pacific Coast Highway and turned off the engine. Before them, the glorious expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see. He twisted to look at the man next to him, waiting.

The gun was no longer aimed at him, but it remained in evidence, held casually, as if to remind him that he didn't have to use it, but could if he chose to. The silence stretched between them, and at last Mark broke it.

"So. What did you want to talk about?" There were a hundred questions he was longing to ask, principal among them Steve's location and condition, but he was afraid that pushing would scare Baxter off and this was as close as he had come to Steve since his disappearance. He didn't dare risk it.

Donald studied him, his eyes keen and curious. "Your boy seems to think that you woulda helped us, even if we didn't do what we did," he said at last.

Mark nodded, his heart in tumult at the mention of Steve. "If you'd asked me."

Donald studied him as if he were a new and peculiar kind of specimen.

"Tuck didn't do it," he blurted finally. "I know my boy. He ain't no saint - I know that - but this? He didn't do this. He couldn't. Ain't in him."

"No." Mark nodded in agreement. "I don't think so either."

Donald's gaze became painful in its intensity. "You find somethin' out…?"

Mark shook his head. "No. Well, some things, but nothing conclusive yet. But after talking to him, I find it hard to believe that he killed Rico. Like you say - it's not in him."

"You seen Tuck?" Donald looked surprised, then sad, kicking irritably at the car's carpeting. "That's one big problem with this damned plan - can't even see my own kid - show him a face he knows while he's in prison. I wanna see my kid."

Mark sighed quietly. "I know what you mean."

Donald looked at him quickly and flushed, but he bobbed a nod. "Reckon you do." He stared through the windshield at the ocean. "How's he doin'?"

"He's scared." Mark saw his expression and smiled. "Oh, he didn't say that - just the opposite - but he is. He's just a boy. Prison is no place for a boy his age."

Donald nodded bleakly. "So you see my problem."

Mark nodded back, then asked softly, "And my boy? How's he?"

Donald turned his head away for a minute to stare out the passenger window, and something about his face made Mark's stomach clench with fear.

"He's doin'." Donald answered vaguely at last. "He'll be okay."

Mark drew in a deep breath. Steve was alive, then, and that was something. "You don't sound very sure."

Donald shrugged uneasily.

"I see." Mark watched him, hungry for clues. "Then you see my problem, too."

Donald winced. "Reckon." He was silent a long time this time, running his hand up and down the gun barrel. "Your boy seems to think that this don't have to end too bad. That we kin clear Tuck and maybe not go to prison for it. He seems real sure."

Mark raised his brows. "If things haven't gone too far, then, yes - it's possible that we might straighten things out."

Donald kept his eyes on the side window, avoiding his gaze. "He said you'd help."

"Well, that depends," Mark kept his voice steady, fighting hard against the urge to yell at him, to shake him until he told him exactly where they were keeping Steve. "What is it that you want?"

Donald sank back in the seat, thinking hard. "I want my boy to have a chance," he decided. "He's good with cars - he gets out, he can go to school, get a good job, live decent. I want him to be all right."

Mark nodded encouragingly. "It's not too late. No reason why that can't happen."

Donald barked a short laugh. "Yeah, right. What do you know about folks like us and how it is for us? What do you know about boys like my Tuck?"

"More than you think. My son - " His voice caught on the word, and he broke off, rubbing absently at the left side of his chest. When he could talk past the tightness in his throat he continued, "…has done quite a bit of work with at-risk boys like Tucker. I've seen many of them turn their lives around."

"You don't say." Donald looked sullen. "What is it with you folks, anyhow? You ain't got enough troubles of your own to work on?"

Mark shrugged. "Offering a helping hand is a way of helping yourself too, Donald. Makes it that much more likely that there'll be someone around to help you when the time comes. And it just plain makes the world a friendlier place."

Donald snorted. "First I heard of it."

Mark smiled. "Maybe you should give it a try."

Donald pursed his lips, his eyes devouring the window without seeing it. "Reckon I - want for your boy to be all right too."

Mark's heart constricted painfully. "Sounds like we have mutual goals." Donald squinted hard at him and he gestured apologetically. "Uh - I mean that it sounds like we both want the same things."

"Yeah." Donald nodded, his face scrunched wonderingly, then he huffed a laugh. "Well, I'll be damned."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve rubbed his hands ineffectually against his jeans, stalling. "I don't suppose," he began dryly, "that there's anywhere that I can wash my hands?"

"They're plenty clean enough for what you'll be doin'." Cletus gestured with his shotgun for him to get moving.

Steve ignored the gesture. "I guess that nobody ever told you that cleanliness is next to godliness?" he drawled.

Cletus' squint deepened. "Yeah, I know your kind. Always powderin' and primpin' like some gal. Some of us ain't got the time, boy - some of us are too busy scratchin' together a livin' for us and ours. But you wouldn't know nothing' about that." He spit a long stream of tobacco juice, just short of Steve's shoes.

Steve didn't even flinch. "Oh, I know all about it, believe me. Hear the same song and dance all the time on the job. There's always some whiner who thinks that a little bad luck gives him the right to trample over everybody else. Well, I've got news for you, Baxter - the world is full of people with bad luck and they don't all decide to let it ruin them - don't use it as any excuse to turn everybody else into a punching bag. But that takes strength. Excuses are for the weak ones."

Cletus locked his gimlet stare on Steve. Steve met his look, cool and unruffled. Without a word, Cletus swung the gun around and lifted the rifle butt.

Steve's eyes blazed. _Paydirt. _

This was exactly what he'd had in mind - that gun barrel turned the other way. It took about a second for Cletus to realize he'd been maneuvered, but by then it was too late - Steve's hand clamped around the gun butt before it could land and pulled, simultaneously kneeing Cletus with all his remaining strength. Cletus emitted a thin, wailing wheeze and dropped like a stone.

Steve held onto the gun, trying to shake it from his grip, but despite his state, curled in a tight ball, keening, Cletus clung to it tenaciously.

It's as if the damn thing really is another appendage,Steve thought, cursing in frustration.

Well, much as he hated to leave it, he couldn't waste any more time over it. Who knew how quickly a tough old bird like Cletus would recover, and the thought of what he might do to him to exact his revenge if he ever caught up with him made his decision. He let go of the gun and took off for the trees at a shambling parody of his usual run.

Every step jolted his back with ribbons of fire, the shackle score on his ankle burning and ballooning, but he heard Cletus' howl of rage behind him, gathering steam, and knew that pain would take on a whole new meaning if he didn't hurry. The trees were just ahead now. Desperate, he tried to pick up the pace. Cletus' howl grew to a roar.

The grass was thinning under his feet, scattered with needles from the trees. Cletus yelled his name. He sounded strong. _Just a couple of more steps…_

He almost had it when his feet betrayed him.

His damaged ankle hit the needles covering the rain-slick ground at an awkward angle, skidding in the mud and shooting out from under him, slamming him into the earth just as he heard the booming concussion of the old shotgun. He hit the mud on his stomach with a force that reverberated through his tattered back. The pain was blinding, squeezing the air from his lungs and the sense from his head. For a moment all he could do was lie still, dazed and dizzy.

_Cletus is up and around_, a voice inside reminded him. _Move, move, move_…

He dug his fingers into the earth and dragged himself forward, toward the trees. He wasn't sure how fast Cletus was, but he was lugging along that damned heavy shotgun…he pulled himself into a half-crouch…but of course, he really only needed to get near enough to get off a good shot…

He scrambled awkwardly forward on all fours, into the shadowed shelter of the trees, his shoulders and thighs ricocheting off the branches as he struggled to create some distance, to find some cover. He spotted a thick copse of chaparral and crawled under it to catch his breath and listen for Cletus.

For a moment all he could hear was the thunderous sound of his heart in his ears, the tortured catch of his breathing; hoped that he was the only one who could hear it. Gradually, he became aware of a prickling sting at his right elbow and rubbed at it impatiently, listening for sounds of pursuit. His hand touched wetness - the wrong texture for mud - and he glanced at it curiously. Frowned. Even in the dark, cool shadows he could see that the wetness was red. He stared, then twisted his arm for a better look. That wasn't a bullet hole, but there was something…

He saw the small peppering of wounds and almost whistled. Maybe that slip of his had been lucky after all. Might have saved him from a back full of birdshot or carpet tacks or gravel - whatever it was Cletus was using. And lucky him that Cletus was too cheap to spring for real ammo. Didn't look serious - just painful and inconvenient.

A twig snapped not far off and he gritted his teeth. Of course, Cletus wouldn't be far behind. Those drag marks he'd left by the tree line would be obvious to a blind man, never mind a seasoned tracker like Cletus.

"So, boy," Cletus caroled as Steve tried to gauge exactly how close he was, "You like huntin'?" Steve heard to the snick of the old shotgun cocking. Probably had one barrel left, he calculated, then he'd have to take the time to reload. And that would be the time to make his move. "'Cause I like it fine. I'm real good at it, too."

Steve smiled grimly in his hiding place_. I'll bet you are, you bastard. Bet it doesn't make any difference at all to you whether you're hunting a deer…or a man. Well, I've played hide and seek with the Viet Cong and lived to tell the tale, so I'm no slouch at this myself._

_Guess we're going to find out who's better at the game._


	7. The Capacity to Kill

**Chapter Seven: The Capacity to Kill**

Donald sat studying the doctor in silence for a while. He could tell the old man was just itching to pepper him with more questions, maybe even ask to be taken to his son, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He looked tired and worn out, and Donald figured the geezer had probably gone off his feed because he was so worried about his son. With a frown, he realized that Pa hadn't yet missed a meal or a wink of sleep, or an excuse to drink some of his corn liquor for that matter, since Tucker had been arrested.

"When your boy was a kid, how'd you make him mind you?"

"Make him?" Mark questioned as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "I don't know that I ever did make him do anything. When he was little, he was very helpful, and he liked to stay busy working with his mother and me around the house."

"I didn't have no mother," Donnie said. "She left Pa an' me when I was a baby."

"I know," Mark said. He wasn't sure if he should add 'I'm sorry', so he just let it go.

Donnie gave a bitter laugh, "Sometimes I still wish she'd have took me with her."

Not knowing how to respond, Mark waited in silence.

"What about when he got older? When he got to be Tuck's age? Was he still such a Boy Scout?" The tone of the question made it clear that Donald didn't think much of the Boy Scouts.

Mark couldn't resist a grin as he said, "He'd never admit it, but in his teens, he was a lot like his sister for a while, stubborn, impetuous." At Donnie's confused look, he explained, "They both often acted without thinking things through, but Steve had better judgment than Carol."

"Well, what did you do when they got out of hand?"

"With Steve, it was usually enough to let him suffer the natural consequences of his actions." He could tell by the look on Donnie's face that he didn't quite comprehend the phrase 'natural consequences', so he continued. "If he didn't do his chores, his mother and I didn't take him to football practice. If he didn't go to practice, he didn't play. If he didn't do his schoolwork, the teachers told the coach, and again, he didn't get to play. It's, uh . . . it's easier when the school helps you."

Donnie eyed the old doctor shrewdly, and asked, "What about your daughter? What did you do with her?"

Mark was surprised by the question. He hadn't thought Donnie sharp enough to realize there would be any difference in the way he had raised his two children. He wasn't sure where all the questions about parenting strategies were taking them, but if there were any chance that they might get him to Steve, he would answer them. Even if Donald didn't take him to his son, as long as the younger Baxter was with him, the odds against Steve were even and he would have a better chance to escape.

"Carol was a difficult child," Mark admitted regretfully. "There was a lot of yelling and slamming of doors when she was a teenager, and she was grounded more often than not. We would take away her privileges and give her extra chores, but she often just did what she wanted anyway. She was my wild child."

"Didja ever hit her?"

"No, my wife and I agreed before we started our family that we would never strike our children."

Donnie nodded. "Do you think it might have worked with your girl?"

Mark frowned as he thought about Carol. Bruce had beaten her, how often and how severely, Mark never did find out, but eventually, she had left him, and her father had been the first person she had come to for help. She wouldn't have done that if he had hit her when she was growing up. He didn't think it would help to explain to Donnie that she had run off and married a man who abused her or that she was murdered on her honeymoon with her second husband because he was Arabic, so he said, "No, I think it would have driven her away."

"I ain't never beat Tuck," Donnie said quietly.

Mark schooled his features to hide his surprise. It was clear that Donnie wanted to be believed, to be considered a good father, and Mark knew if he let his expression give away his doubts, their conversation was over.

"I might give him a slap upside the head if he did somethin' stupid or mouthed off to me," Donnie elaborated, "but I ain't never beat him like my pa done me. He'd take his belt to me, or a shovel, or the broomstick, or any damned thing that was handy, an' when he really got started, he didn't stop 'til I quit yellin'. I swore I would never do that to my kid, an' I never have."

"So, you've made things better for your son than they were for you."

Donnie's eyes sparked with anger for a moment. "That's what a pa's supposed to do, it don't matter whether he's a fancy doctor or an ignernt redneck."

"I know," Mark said carefully, not wanting to offend the agitated man, "and from what I have seen, you've been doing a good job with Tucker. If we can figure out whom he's protecting, there's no reason he can't go back to school and someday make a good life for himself, and if my son's . . . situation works out all right, you could be a part of it."

Donnie nodded and sat silently for a while. Knowing he had given the man a lot to think about, Mark remained quiet, too, and watched the ocean and tried to keep calm. This might be his one and only chance to help Steve, and he didn't want to blow it by talking too much. He heard a few cars buzzing by on the highway and watched the gulls swoop and soar at the shoreline, and time had never seemed to pass so slowly. The minutes felt like days, and he could feel himself growing older as he waited for Donnie to make a decision. He smiled slightly as he remembered a scene from one of the newer Star Trek shows Jesse had made him watch, the Q Community or something like that, where everyone sat around on the porch and it took forever for anything to happen.

Just as Mark gathered himself to make a desperate plea for his son's release, Donnie asked, "If I was take you to your son, what guarantee would I have that you will keep tryin' to help Tuck?"

Mark's breath caught in his throat and his heart began to pound. Donnie wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, but he had to know Mark couldn't continue working on Tucker's case if he was being held captive. That meant he could only be considering one of two things; either he wanted to take Mark to see that Steve was all right and then have him leave his son behind, something which Mark would never allow to happen, or he was going to let Steve go and trust the Sloans to help Tucker anyway.

Knowing that without the threat to his son's safety hanging over his head there was nothing to compel him to help, Mark gave Donnie the only guarantee he could. Looking him in the eye and offering the young man his hand to shake, he said, "You have my word."

Donnie looked at the offered hand and then met the old man's gaze again. He saw nothing but worry and honesty in the clear blue eyes. Mark Sloan seemed so different from his pa, and that alone made him a decent man. He might just be able to trust him after all.

Shaking the doctor's hand, surprised by the strength of his grip, Donnie said, "All right. Get your bag out of the trunk an' follow me."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve gritted his teeth and held his breath to keep from crying out as he peeled the remains of his tattered shirt away from his raw back. It wouldn't do to have Cletus find him too soon. He'd led the old man a merry chase into the woods, being sure to leave a trail that was easily followed, then misdirected him by throwing a rather large branch down a steep slope into a ravine to simulate the effect of a man crashing through the brush as he scrambled down the bank. He hadn't wanted to stay in the woods too long, though, because there wasn't enough cover in the under story. The trees in this area were so large and close together that they blocked the light, preventing much of anything from growing beneath their branches. So, once he was sure his pursuer had taken the bait and headed into the ravine, he hurried, quiet as a cat, back to the dense brush that edged the clearing around the cabin.

Trying not to notice the numerous spots of dried blood and other bodily fluids staining his shirt, he tied it to a tall, gangly shrub, making sure most of the garment was obscured so Cletus wouldn't realize he wasn't actually in it. Then he tied the end of a sturdy vine he had found to the branch as well, and crept back into the thick brush a few yards away where he had already placed a thick, heavy branch that he planned to use as a club. Finally, he picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it into the trees somewhere in Cletus' general direction and yelled as if he'd been hurt.

Steve knew he had to be patient. Donnie might have come crashing through the bushes at the sound of his yell, either to help him, or to fret about what his pa might say, depending on how brave he was feeling at the moment, but Cletus was more suspicious. He would approach cautiously, and everything would have to be timed perfectly for Steve's plan to work. As he crouched in the brush listening intently for the sounds of Cletus' approach, he ignored the buzzing, whining insects, the biting flies, and mosquitoes. Sweat broke out on his face and neck, and he never wiped it away. Tired muscles ached, cramped, and trembled, but he kept still and focused. Finally, his patience was rewarded.

The snapping of a twig alerted Steve to Cletus' approach first. Then he heard soft, careful footsteps; the pace was deliberately erratic so the sound would blend in better with the quiet cacophony of woodland noises than the steady tread of a man on a mission. He spotted the old man approaching from the direction of the outhouse, peering about, poking the barrel of the shotgun into masses of tangled shrubs and weeds around the edge of the clearing. Patience had never been one of his virtues, but Steve waited, and then he waited a little longer until he was sure the Cletus was close enough to spot the shirt but far enough away to not realize that nobody was in it anymore.

Finally, Cletus was right where Steve wanted him to be, and he pulled the vine that made the branch shake. Cletus zeroed in on it immediately, and Steve held his breath as he raised the shotgun and took aim.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Cletus taunted as he stepped slowly forward, and Steve waited.

_Just fire the damned gun,_ Steve thought. He gave the vine in his hand another gentle tug, hoping to goad the old man into action. Cletus just grinned and stepped closer. _Shoot, dammit!_ It was all Steve could do not to yell instructions as Cletus stalked across the clearing, passing within just a few feet of his hiding place. Steve yanked on the vine again, and felt his heart sink when Cletus stopped just five feet away. Then his posture changed, and Steve knew he had spotted the ruse.

Steve launched himself from his hiding place and attacked. Stiff muscles screamed and the branches scraping his tortured back made it burn like he'd been splashed with hot oil, but he managed to get in one solid blow to Cletus' ribs with his club and grinned with satisfaction as he heard the crunch of bone. Cletus screamed in pain and wheeled toward him, but the shotgun had a long barrel and Steve was too close for him to pull up and get off a shot. Dropping his club, Steve grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pointed it toward the ground as he stepped closer to prevent Cletus from backing up and firing. As the two men wrestled for the weapon, it discharged, wounding them both.

Steve wrested the gun away from Cletus, took a step back, and looked down at his leg. A few particles of whatever Baxter used instead of buckshot had penetrated his jeans and were probably lodged in his shin. The stinging pain and spots of blood on the dark blue denim were finally more insult than he could bear. He threw the gun away and glared at the old coot, wild-eyed and enraged.

If Cletus had shown some fear, if he had just backed away a step, things might have gone differently from there, but as it was, he laughed his cackley laugh, balled up his fists, adopted a fighting stance, and said, "So, now the odds are even."

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark sighed with relief as the ancient truck finally bounced into the clearing and shuddered to a halt. He took hold of his bag and already had the door open before Donnie grabbed his arm.

"You best let me go in first. Pa's liable to blow your head off if he don't know you're comin'."

Mark nodded, and though it cost him dearly, he patiently followed the younger man to the cabin when he really wanted to bolt across the clearing and rush to his son's side. As he stepped into the single dingy room, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he could tell just by the feel of the place that it was empty.

"Huh!" Donnie grunted. "I suppose Pa could have took him to the outhouse. Reckon you ought to stay here while I go check."

The young man was hardly out the door when the sound of gunfire rent the air. Throwing all caution to the wind, Mark dropped his bag and charged out the door behind Donnie. As he raced across the clearing to the source of the noise, he couldn't help but wonder what person in his right mind would run _toward_ the sound of gunfire? When he and Donnie arrived at the scene, what they saw made them both freeze for a moment.

Cletus Baxter was flat on his back, arms flung up to protect his face and head, pleading for mercy. Steve was on top of him, sweating, sobbing, muttering vile curses, and swearing that Cletus would never hurt anyone else as he pounded the living hell out of the old man.

The first thing that actually registered in Mark's mind was the mass of scabs and inflamed, seeping wounds on his son's back. Then he realized that Cletus had stopped struggling, but Steve was still beating him, slamming his fists into the old man's body with a mechanical motion that somehow suggested that he didn't know how to stop himself. Finally, it occurred to him that if he didn't stop his son soon, he could easily beat Cletus to death.

"Steve," he said calmly as he stepped forward and grabbed one of his son's flailing fists. Steve tried to jerk his arm free and swing again, but Mark held on and crouched down beside his boy.

"Steve, it's over. I'm here, Son." He continued to talk soothingly as he placed his hands on his son's bare shoulders and gently turned him to face him. Steve let his body be turned, but he kept his face toward Cletus. Mark reached up and cupped his chin in his hand, turning his head so he could look Steve in the eye. For a moment, Steve's expression was blank, his eyes dead, then they filled with shame.

"Oh, God, Dad! What did I do?" He retched once, lurched to his feet, and scrambled a few feet away where he collapsed to his knees and vomited in the grass.

Mark followed his son and dropped down beside him. "Steve, are you all right?" After that one look at Steve's back, he knew the real answer was no, but he also knew that those injuries were minor compared to what Cletus might have suffered, and if Steve could assure him he was ok, ethically, he was bound to look after Cletus first.

Steve nodded as he gasped for air, and he said, "I'll . . . be ok, but . . . Oh, God, Dad, if I killed him . . . "

"If you killed him, it was in self-defense, son."

"Please, Dad, don't let him die!"

The anguish he saw in Steve's eyes and heard in his voice tore at Mark's heart. "I'll do my best son. You just rest here, ok?"

Steve nodded, and lay face down on the grass where he struggled to catch his breath. Mark turned toward his patient as he took his cell phone out of his pocket. "Get my bag," he told Donnie. "I dropped it in the cabin. I'm calling 911. Where should I tell them we are?"

"South end of Piney Creek Ravine, north of the fire road, but tell them to be careful, Pa booby trapped the road," Mark nodded, and as he dialed, he began a visual survey of his patient.

Cletus had two black eyes, a broken nose, several newly missing teeth, and possibly a fractured jaw. There were also handprint bruises around his neck where Steve had apparently choked him during the struggle. After requesting a Medivac helicopter and warning the would-be rescuers about the booby-trapped fire road, Mark opened Cletus' shirt and winced at what he saw.

Purplish, fist-sized bruises covered the man's torso. The way his ribs sucked in with each wheezing breath and bulged out with each exhalation indicated that he was suffering from a flailed chest and probably a pneumothorax as well. Mark shook his head, wondering just how bad things had been to make his son beat the man so severely that he had broken three or four of his ribs in the front and back. Chances were, Cletus also had some abdominal bleeding, and maybe even a ruptured spleen.

Amazingly, Cletus was coming around just as Donnie arrived with the medical bag.

"Pa?" the worried son queried. "Pa, please don't die."

As Mark checked his vitals, Cletus gave a raspy, gurgling laugh and said, "Durned fool . . . you of all people . . . should know . . . I'm too damned mean . . . to die yet."

Donnie smiled weakly as Mark admonished his patient, "Don't talk."

Cletus spat out a tooth and a good amount of blood along with it, then turned his head left and right until he spotted Steve. His mouth twisted into a bloody rictus of a grin and he wheezed mockingly, "So . . . cop . . . you enjoyed it . . . didn't you . . . beatin' the hell . . . outta me? Howzit feel . . . hatin' me enough . . . to wanna kill me . . . knowin' you're as bad . . . as you think I am?"

Steve, who was now sitting cross-legged in the grass watching as his father treated Cletus' injuries, just bowed his head and shook it.

"Shut up, Baxter," Mark hissed. "Leave him alone."

"He kin take it . . ." Cletus wheezed. "He's tougher . . . than you think."

"He probably is," Mark agreed coldly, "but my son is no murderer. He doesn't have the capacity to kill you out of simple hatred. He is a decent man, something you can't understand. He was acting in self-defense, and when he knew help was here, he stopped."

"Every man . . . who's really a man . . . " Cletus rolled his eyes toward his son and gave him a venomous look. " . . . knows how to kill."

Mark looked over at Donnie and shook his head as he saw the young man turn red with shame. He couldn't understand why a father would want to hurt his own son in that way.

"You may be right," he agreed with Cletus surprising both of the Baxters and himself. Then his tone turned disdainful, "But to my son, you're not worth the trouble."

Cletus laughed and spat out some more blood. "I think . . . he'd a done it . . . if you hadn't . . . come when you did."

"And I know you're wrong," Mark said firmly. "Now, while my conscience wouldn't suffer any to watch you die slowly right here, I am ethically bound as a doctor to inform you that every breath you take and every word you speak is contributing to a pneumothorax that could kill you before help arrives."

"New-muh . . . ?"

"Collapsed lung," Mark explained. "You'll suffocate. Just shut up and take slow, shallow breaths."

As Mark finished wrapping Cletus' ribs and giving him morphine for the pain, the Medivac flight could be heard in the distance. By the time he'd made one more check of his patient's vitals, the chopper had arrived. He gave the paramedics the rundown on Cletus' condition, Donnie boarded the helicopter with his father, and they were gone in a matter of minutes. Finally, it was just Mark and Steve in the clearing.

Mark approached his son carefully. Steve was clearly traumatized, and he wouldn't handle any more stress well. He wanted to check out the wounds on his son's back, to see if there was any infection and to ask what had caused them. He crouched down and placed a hand gently on Steve's bare, tanned shoulder, one of the few parts that didn't appear to be battered and abused, and was surprised to feel his son trembling beneath his touch.

"Steve?"

"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? What for?"

Steve looked at him, his face a mask of anguish. "I wanted to kill him, Dad," he continued whispering, "I wanted to kill him with my bare hands." His jaw hung slack, his eyes welled with tears, and he began weeping silently. As Steve leaned forward and rested his head on his dad's shoulder, Mark sank to the grass to sit beside his son.

"It's ok, Son, it's over now. You're safe. You're safe." With a featherlight touch, doing his best to avoid the inflamed gouges on Steve's back, Mark put his arms around his son and held him, and that is how Amanda and Jesse found them twenty minutes later.


	8. Found and Lost

**Chapter Eight: Found . . . and Lost**

"Steve, Mark," Jesse called out as soon as he caught sight of his two friends, but there was no response to his call. He exchanged a worried glance with Amanda before both broke into a run to cover the last of the distance across the clearing. They had known for the last hour that Steve had been found and that he was alive, but beyond that they had received scant information, instead of waiting to find out more they had chosen instead to make their way from the staging post to their friends as soon as possible. Seeing them now, Mark cradling Steve in his arms, did little to relieve the anxiety they had been feeling. The news that Steve had been found had only brought some of the relief that they sought, would only bring that until they knew that he was going to be okay. As they moved they could see the dried blood on Steve's arm and there was an unnatural stillness about the two.

"Mark," Jesse tried again, "I. . ." but he did not finish the sentence as he caught sight of Steve's back for the first time. "What the . . ?" He swore softly and let out a low breath that was almost a whistle.

Amanda had moved around the opposite side of Mark and Steve, she caught sight of the injuries at about the same time and let out a startled grasp. Stopping abruptly, she exchanged another worried glance with Jesse before he moved to kneel next to Mark, placing the medical kit that he had with him gently on the ground.

Neither Mark nor Steve responded to the calls or the sounds of movement as Jesse and Amanda approached because neither man heard it, to them there was no sound, no sense of time, no reality, beyond the embrace.

One of Mark's hands had moved to cradle the back of Steve's head against his shoulder, the other gripped his upper arm, supporting him gently. His mind was focused on comforting his son, trying to banish the torment that he had seen in Steve's eyes, trying to quell the demons of guilt. By contrast his soul was bathing in relief that Steve was alive, that he had found him. At that moment he was not Doctor Mark Sloan, Chief of Internal Medicine at Community General Hospital, highly competent physician, he was simply Mark Sloan, father, holding on to his only son for all he was worth because he had come so close to losing him, and that moment was now frozen in time. He could have stayed there, two minutes, two hours, he wouldn't have known, it was only Jesse's gentle pressure on his arm that finally brought him back.

"Mark," Jesse said softly doing his best to keep his tone, steady, even, despite the shock he felt at the state Steve was in. He waited until the older doctor's eyes focused on him. "Mark, I need to get a proper look at Steve."

It took a minute for Mark to process the information, Jesse's presence, the meaning of the words he had spoken. It was like fighting through a fog, eventually he blinked and his mind snapped back to the present. He looked at Jesse, then at Steve and back again, before replying. "Jess," he glanced around "Amanda?" there was another slight pause as he ordered his thoughts, "How long?"

"We just got here," Jesse supplied, he indicated Steve with a slight nod of his head, "How's he doing?"

Mark looked down at his son, Steve's eyes were closed and apart from a slight shiver, he was still. "I don't. . ." Like being doused with a bucket of cold water, the realisation that he had not yet examined his son for injuries hit Mark, the sudden surge of adrenaline that accompanied the realisation, finally clearing the emotional fog that had held him inactive. His tone changed, his voice authoritative, "Help me lay him down."

Jesse nodded and changed his position, taking off his jacket and laying it on the dusty ground before moving to support Steve's shoulders. Amanda was already locating the supplies they would need from the bag she had with her.

"Steve," Mark said, his tone adjusting once more to something soft, almost lyrical. Steve's eyes fluttered open. "We're just going to lay you down so that we can get a better look at you ok?"

Steve nodded slightly and tried to move on his own, unable to stifle a gasp as rapidly stiffening muscles and damaged skin protested his attempts. His focus on survival had been so strong that he had somehow managed to ignore the pain. The mixture of fear, desperation, adrenaline and finally anger had kept him going despite his physical state, and now he was beginning to pay for that as his abused and weakened system protested its treatment. The mixture of bloodloss and dehydration were starting to make his thoughts sluggish. As he tried to move again, it seemed like every pain receptor in his body fired at once and he grasped desperately back for the comfort of his father's embrace, not realising that his finger's dug painfully into Mark's arms as he gripped them, riding out the waves of pain.

Mark grimaced slightly as Steve grabbed him, empathising with the pain that drove the action, he kept his voice soothing, "It's OK we'll give you something for that in just a minute. Come on now." He kept up the gentle monologue as, with Jesse's help, they eased Steve on to his side.

For the first time Mark noticed the blood on Steve's jeans, cutting up the leg to reveal the close group of small lacerations that had penetrated deep into the shin, the dark grey carbon stains around the wound telling him that the shotgun had been close when it was fired, no doubt the shot that had gained his and Donald's attention.

"I've got a gunshot injury here,"

"Me too," Jesse stated, examining Steve's shoulder, "Just superficial though, I'm not sure what he was using as ammo."

"This one's deeper, nothing we can do here apart from clean and dress it," Mark stated, he glanced around. "Damn that ambulance is taking a long time. Why isn't it here yet?"

It was time for Jesse and Amanda to exchange another meaningful look. "It could be a while," he stated cautiously.

Mark looked over at him, realising intuitively that he wasn't going to like the answer, he asked the question anyway. "Why? What happened?"

"Well," Jesse swallowed nervously, "You warned us that Cletus booby trapped the road."

Mark nodded.

"So we were very cautious as we drove up here, we managed to avoid several spikes that were designed to rip the wheels, but the last one we swerved round was a decoy."

"The real trap was a disguised ditch just past it," Amanda picked up the tale, "the front wheels went down and snapped the axle."

Mark looked with concern between the two. "Are you two all right?"

Jesse nodded. "Unfortunately, the ambulance was too close behind and the driver was too busy concentrating on the traps on the road to notice what had happened, he went straight into the back of us."

"Is he OK?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Amanda replied, "his airbag deployed but the paramedic in the back wasn't so lucky. We left the driver looking after him and brought what supplies we could," she indicated the two medical kits, "with us."

"I'm afraid," Jesse said apologetically, "that it's going to take some time to get another ambulance out here and they won't be able to get through until they clear the road. Until then it's up to us."

Mark took a moment to digest the news, lamenting the fact that there hadn't been room on the medivac chopper for both Cletus and his son, he'd had no choice but to send the more seriously injured patient, but now, having had a chance to assess Steve's injuries he was starting to have some very unprofessional thoughts, his hands tensed briefly into a tight grip, the only outward sign of his frustration. He nodded to Jesse and, with a conscious effort to control the building tension, he turned back to the task in hand gently lifting the denim to get a look at Steve's other leg, he gasped as he caught sight of the swollen and abraded ankle, blood and skin coming away with the material, a soft curse left his lips

Jesse meanwhile was trying to examine the bruises on Steve's abdomen, knowing that he couldn't do it properly until he could get Steve lying on his back, but he could not do that until that had been cleaned and dressed, so he satisfied himself with a preliminary check for signs of obvious internal bleeding.

"My God, what did this guy hit him with?" Jesse wasn't even sure that he'd voiced the question aloud, as he examined the damage to Steve's forehead and jaw, until Steve answered him.

"The butt of his shotgun," Steve stated without emotion, the answer automatic, his mind not even acknowledging that the question might have been rhetorical. "And his belt," there was a short pause. "He enjoyed it." Steve stated quietly, as the memory of Cletus' toothless grin flashed before his eyes.

Once more the three doctors that surrounded him paused in their tasks and looked at each other, empathy for Steve's suffering etched on each face. Amanda had been checking Steve's vital signs, trying hard to remain professional despite the tears that were welling in her eyes. This was why she was happy being a pathologist, she did not have to watch any of her patients suffer in pain, that was bad enough, watching a friend was far worse.

"We need to get dressings on these wounds and get him to shelter," Jesse stated, trying with only partial success to keep detached and professional.

The next half hour seemed to drag out interminably as the three doctors worked on their patient, aware that, despite having given him something to dull it, almost everything they did caused Steve pain. Eventually all of the separate wounds had been cleaned and dressed and they were ready to move Steve back to the cabin, which, for three days, had served as his prison. With Mark and Jesse supporting him either side and Amanda carrying the IVs that had been set up, they half walked, half carried him into the dilapidated building, and laid him as carefully as they could on the cot that Cletus had slept on.

Mark knelt next to the bed so that he could get his eyes level with Steve's. "How you doing son?" he asked, brushing the sweat soaked hair from Steve's forehead.

Steve forced his eyes to open, forced his focus on to something other than the pain, "Been better," he said, noting the soft concern in his father's expression, " . . 'll be OK," he muttered, his eyes starting to drift closed, but he forced them open again. "Thanks," he said, his voice still quiet, "for finding me, couldn't have. . . wouldn't have. . ." Once again Steve's emotions exploded as he considered what might have been if his father hadn't arrived when he did. His breathing began to quicken as the guilt clouded his expression.

"It's OK, Steve," Mark's tone was soothing "You're OK, and you don't need to thank me, you need to thank Donald, he brought me here." Mark used the information as a distraction, knowing that he needed to get Steve's thoughts away from the 'what might have beens.' All too aware from Steve's earlier reaction that that was likely to remain an emotional minefield for some time to come, and now was not the time to try to deal with it.

"Donald?" Steve asked for confirmation as his father's ploy worked.

"Yes, he came to the house, we talked, he brought me here. Seems someone managed to persuade him that we'd help his son even without you as a hostage."

Steve managed the smallest of smiles, at least one of his tactics had worked as it was supposed to " 'm glad," he said, once again finding the effort of forming words almost too much, "Donald's not bad deep down, tried . . help . . me . ." The pauses between words grew longer as Steve lost the battle to remain conscious.

"That's OK son, you get some rest," Mark patted him on the arm and watched as his breathing evened out before pushing himself to his feet, shaking out some of the kinks as he did so.

Amanda appeared at his side and he found a mug pushed into his hand. "I found some coffee, thought you could do with some."

"Thanks," Mark pulled his gaze away from his sleeping son. "They promised they wouldn't hurt him," he stated, his voice cracking slightly. "How could anyone. . ." He turned away, holding back the tears that threatened, as he took his own turn at trying to ignore the 'what ifs.' He felt a firm pressure on his shoulder and realised that Amanda had guided him to the table and was pushing him down into one of the chairs, he sank gratefully on to it. Looking across at Jesse who was already seated at the other side.

"He'll be OK," Jesse stated, knowing that right now Mark needed the reassurance, they all did as they dealt with the emotional fallout of the last few days. Mark didn't say anything more he just nodded, dropping his gaze to his coffee cup he stared into its depths trying to order his thoughts. He lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip his eyes raising to scan the room in front of him.

The push of the chair scraping across the wooden floor startled both Jesse and Amanda as Mark stood sharply, the coffee cup sloshing down on to the table, as he moved round it crossing the room in four strides, crouching to pick something off the floor. He stared at the heavy rusted iron shackle momentarily before looking across at Steve, the injuries to his ankle suddenly making sense. He stood and threw the shackle to the ground with all his strength, it hit the ground just where the wall met the floor, banging loudly as the impact reverberated down the metal chain.

Steve sat up abruptly startled by the noise, remembered fear forced him to back into the corner of the bed, adrenaline fuelling the sharp movements. Amanda moved instantly to his side, as Jesse moved towards Mark, reaching out towards his friend and mentor, but Mark shrugged him off, turning he walked swiftly through the door, leaving Jesse to watch. "Jess," Amanda called, before he had chance to decide whether or not to follow, the decision was made for him Amanda needed help to get Steve settled again and to check his dressings.

It was Mark's turn to have trouble controlling his anger, his fists clenching and unclenching as his mind put together a picture of how his son had been held, chained to a wall, sleeping on the floor, beaten until he could barely stand. If Cletus Baxter had been in front of him at that point he couldn't have guaranteed that he wouldn't have picked up where Steve left off. An all consuming red mist of hatred descended over him, it was so intense he wasn't sure that he had any control of it, there seemed no room for rational thought. He had only felt this way once before when he believed that Gordon Ganza had ordered a hit on Steve that had almost succeeded. Then his anger had been because Steve had almost died. Now it was because of the inhumane way Steve had been treated, any doubts he may have had before were gone now. That Cletus Baxter would eventually have killed Steve if he hadn't got away from him, was a certainty.

Mark wasn't sure for how long he walked, but he knew that he had set up a punishing pace as he tried to walk off the anger, the hatred, to calm the feelings that he was so unused to, eventually some semblance of rationality began to return and he looked around, taking stock of where he was. He had at least had the good sense to follow a trail. With a heavy sigh, he knew that it was time to turn back.

_Sloans' Deck_

"No," Steve shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not going anywhere without dad."

"But Steve," Amanda said, keeping her tone as calm as she could despite her own rising fears, "He just went for a walk to clear his head, he'll be back soon and then we'll follow you straight down."

Steve wasn't going to be placated so easily, his father had been gone for over an hour to his knowledge and he was fairly sure that he'd been out of it before that, whatever had caused Mark to decide to go for a walk, he should be back by now. He looked directly at the two EMTs who had brought the stretcher in. "I'm sorry but I'm not going with you until I know my father's all right. He's been gone far too long."

"Steve," it was Jesse's turn to try, "most of the wounds on your back are infected, you have a developing fever and we need to get whatever Cletus was using instead of shot removed from your system whilst we can still find it. There's no way Mark would want you to delay getting to the hospital."

"But you don't understand," Steve stated, more than an edge of fear in his voice. "Cletus left booby traps around the trails in the woods, I saw some of them, you've seen the ones on the road yourself."

"I do understand," Jesse said, he'd been having the same thoughts himself for the past hour, "but the best thing you can do is head for the hospital, Amanda and I will stay, we'll find him."

"There's really nothing you can do even if you do stay here," Amanda added.

Steve knew she was right, it was taking all of his strength and determination just to sit up, there was no way that he was in any fit state to contribute to a search, but at the moment his father was nearby and somehow he couldn't contemplate putting greater physical distance between them, not after what he had been through. His fingers curled round the threadbare blanket that still covered him, scrunching the edge of the material into a tight ball. He knew that something was wrong, it was almost as if he could sense it, something had happened to Mark and the only thing he could do was try to stay nearby. "I want. . ." he began before faltering. "I need to stay until I know that he's all right." He looked up, "Please?"

Jesse looked at Amanda and shrugged, sighing he walked towards the cabin door, looking out into the fading sunlight. "Dammit Mark where are you?" he muttered under his breath.


	9. Search and Rescue

Chapter Nine: Search and Rescue

Jesse turned back from the doorway to find Amanda hovering anxiously over Steve, who was propped up on his elbow, determination warring with the pain and anxiety written on his countenance. Those strained blue eyes held Jesse's as the young doctor returned to his friend's side.

"Jesse?" The hoarse voice was compelling, and, with a sigh of resignation, Jesse abandoned the futile attempt to convince Steve to allow himself to be transported to the hospital.

"Mark really should be back by now," he admitted quietly. "It's going to be getting dark soon. If we're going to look for him, we should do it now."

The three friends exchanged glances, each recognizing that, with the approach of twilight, the situation had reached a critical juncture. As the shadows lengthened along the trails through the forest, the odds of safely navigating through the hazards planted by Cletus were greatly diminished. Which meant that, even if Mark had not already fallen prey to one of the traps, his chances of returning uninjured were decreasing. And if they were to mount any type of search for him, they needed to do so before the increasing darkness put the rescuers in jeopardy as well. They really couldn't afford to wait any longer.

"I'll go with you," Amanda said, moving to repack the medical bag.

Flicking a glance at Steve, Jesse suggested, "Maybe you should stay here . . ." He hated the idea that Steve would be left to worry about his father without the support of either of his friends. And, on a more practical note, if Steve's condition should worsen to the point that immediate transport was necessary, he knew that the EMTs would be incapable of overriding the detective's stubborn refusal to leave.

"Take one of the medics," Steve said shortly. They glanced at him in surprise, wondering at his acceptance that Amanda should remain with him. Steve met their eyes, his own grimly determined. "Just in case you need help getting Dad back." The unspoken thought that Mark might be in no condition to walk back on his own hovered over them in a dark cloud of dread.

"Good idea," Jesse replied briskly, shaking off the moment of silence engendered by the recognition of the implications of Steve's comment. He turned to the EMTs; after a quick discussion, one of them was elected to accompany Jesse while the other remained at the cabin.

"We'll stay in contact by radio," Jesse stated, as he and the medic prepared to leave. "That way we can keep in touch just in case Mark shows up on his own."

As the rescue party hastened out the door, Steve collapsed back onto the cot, his already-depleted resources now completely drained. He couldn't quite suppress the small hiss of pain as he jarred his injuries, and Amanda turned her concerned attention to him, automatically stretching out a comforting hand, hesitating as, like Mark before her, she tried to find a spot where the intended touch would not cause further pain. She settled for gently rubbing a small spot on his arm, as she checked the portable monitor that was registering his vital signs. Seeing that they were relatively stable, and observing the deep creases of pain in her friend's face, she reached for the vial of morphine and prepared to inject a further dose into his IV. As she readied the syringe, however, she was surprised to feel Steve's hand on her arm, halting her.

"No," he ordered, his voice weak but steady. "I don't want any more meds."

"But, Steve, it'll help with the pain," Amanda protested. Steve shook his head.

"No. If you give me any more, I won't be able to stay awake."

"Steve, that's a good thing," Amanda said persuasively. "You need to rest. It's bad enough that you won't let us take you to the hospital; it's important that you don't overtax your system any further."

"I'm not doing anything taxing," he replied with a trace of bitterness; "I'm just lying here. But I need to know what's happening with Dad. I don't want to leave and I don't want to pass out until I know what's happened to him." He looked up at her, seeing the concern and stress in her face, and realized that she, too, was worried – about both him and his father. Softening his tone, he pleaded, "Please, Amanda. I can handle the pain. I can't handle not knowing about Dad."

Unable to resist that appeal, not wanting to add to the mental strain that she knew he was enduring, she reluctantly complied. She did the best she could to make him comfortable, brought him some water to drink, and maintained a careful watch on his condition. She was pleased to see that, after the drink, he settled back with eyes closed. She could tell by his pulse, and the way his eyes flickered back open occasionally, that he was still awake, but at least he was resting.

Steve lay on the cot, fighting the sedative effects of the morphine and his own weakness. Never particularly enamored of prolonged periods of waiting, he found such inactivity absolutely intolerable when his father was in trouble. To lie here helplessly while his father was missing and presumably injured was a worse torment than any he had experienced during his captivity. He desperately wanted to join in the search for Mark, but knew that, in his current condition, he couldn't even walk unaided to the door, much less participate in an effective search. Frustrated and desperate, he was determined to stay awake until Mark was located, but he found himself floating in and out of a type of waking doze, his conscious fears segueing seamlessly into nightmarish visions of his father lying bleeding to death along one of the paths to cabin. Among the items that he had seen Cletus carry outside during his trap-setting jaunts had been an old steel trap with sharp jagged jaws that clamped shut on the leg of an animal that unwarily stepped into it. Such traps had, some time ago, been outlawed as unnecessarily cruel, often snapping the leg of the unfortunate creature it trapped and causing it to gnaw at its own appendage in the frantic effort to free itself. The vision of his father lying in agony, maimed and bloody, haunted him through both his waking and drowsing moments, rendering true rest impossible. He could only wait in anguished anticipation until he heard from Jesse.

_Sloan's Deck_

Jesse and the EMT followed the path that he had seen Mark take when he left the cabin. Despite the heavy sense of urgency, they trod carefully, knowing that they needed to stay alert for hidden hazards. It wouldn't help Mark any to add yet another person to the list of injured. They skirted around the few traps that they saw, taking some satisfaction in knowing that these had been successfully avoided by Mark as well, finding themselves grateful for the rain which had left softened, muddied patches of earth that retained footprints that reassured them that they were, indeed, following his trail. Periodically, they called out for the older physician as they searched, the foreboding silence after each shout weighing Jesse down with an ever-deeper sense of dread.

They passed from soft woodland into an area of rocky ridge, and, as the shadows started to lengthen across the trail, Jesse knew that their time was running short. Already the medic had reminded him that it would soon be necessary to turn back and await a proper search and rescue team with high-beam lights and better equipment to detect possible booby traps. Jesse forged ahead with an urgency that bordered on desperation, knowing that every minute of unsuccessful search meant not only that Mark's presumptive injuries were left untreated but that Steve's condition would be deteriorating as well. If worse came to worse, he thought grimly, and they failed to find Mark before nightfall, they would have to evacuate Steve, even if it meant sedating him into unconsciousness to do it. Such a move would undoubtedly devastate his friend, but Jesse couldn't and wouldn't allow Steve to jeopardize his life now that they had finally found him. Since he was equally adamant that they wouldn't have saved Steve only to lose Mark, the only acceptable option was obviously to find and rescue Mark as well. He had just mentally reiterated his commitment to that outcome, when they rounded a bend in the path to see a still figure stretched out face down in the dirt, white hair splattered with mud, surrounded by a litter of rocks ranging in size from large pebbles to small boulders.

With a cry of "Mark!", Jesse dropped to his knees beside his friend, as the EMT cautiously scanned for signs of whatever trap had been sprung. Immediately feeling for a pulse, the young doctor felt relief rush through him at the slightly rapid, but steady, beat beneath his fingers. Grabbing the radio, he toggled the switch, announcing excitedly, "We've found him! He's alive!"

"Thank God!" Amanda's voice responded promptly. "How is he?"

"He's unconscious," Jesse replied as he carefully felt for injuries. "I'm checking him over now. I'll let you know more when I'm done." Handing the radio to the medic, who was holding up the trip wire that he had found by Mark's feet, Jesse turned his complete attention to determining the extent of the damage done to his friend.

The first injury he noticed was a swelling on the side of Mark's head, accompanied by a trickle of blood that had streaked down the side of the pale face. The scattering of rocks that lay around and under the body indicated the probable source of the injury, and caused Jesse to carefully examine the prone form for further injuries. There were obvious bruises, but, not finding any immediately apparent broken bones, he enlisted the medic's assistance in applying a cervical collar to Mark's neck and gently rolled the older man over. He was further reassured by the slight groan and flickering of the eyelids that accompanied this maneuver. As he gently wiped the grime from his patient's face to get a better look at the extent of the damage, he called Mark's name, attempting to rouse him, feeling as if he'd just won a lottery when he was rewarded with a gleam of blue as his friend's eyes slitted open.

"That's it, Mark; wake up for me," Jesse encouraged, as he lifted each eyelid and flashed his penlight to determine the reaction of the pupils. Mark flinched away from the light, groaning as the attempt to move his head spiked waves of pain. Noting the expected signs of concussion, Jesse continued his exam as he again prompted his friend for a response.

"Jesse?" The voice was weak, the blue eyes attempting to focus on him cloudy and dazed, but it was music and visions from heaven to the worried physician.

"Take it easy, Mark," he soothed, gently restraining the injured man's attempt to move. "Let me finish checking you out." Noticing the swollen left wrist which had been pinned beneath the fallen body, he carefully prodded it for signs of a break, asking, "Can you move your left hand?"

Tentatively complying, Mark flexed his hand, wiggling his fingers slightly, wincing at the pain that lanced through his forearm at the movement. "What happened?" he asked groggily.

"You seem to have found one of Cletus' booby traps," Jesse said wryly, as he wrapped a bandage tightly around the wrist, having assessed it as probably a bad sprain rather than an actual break. Glancing back up to meet his friend's eyes, he prodded, "What's the last thing you remember?"

Casting his mind back, Mark attempted to dispel the fog that seemed to be dulling his mind. "I was walking…," he replied slowly, grasping at an image that emerged from the mists. "I was heading back to …" With a gasp, Mark gave a sudden, if weak, lurch, as the curtain of fog parted and the whole scenario of the day's events returned in a blinding flash of memory. "… the cabin! Steve… where's Steve? Is he alright?" The words tumbled out in a cascade of anxiety, as Mark grasped weakly at Jesse's sleeve, ignoring the sharp daggers of pain that shot through his wrist and head at the abrupt movements.

"Easy, easy!" Jesse urged, trying to break through the building panic. "Steve's okay. The ambulance is here and we're all set to transport him out."

Mark's eyes frantically searched the younger man's face, desperately attempting to assess the veracity of his statement. Reassured by the sincerity he found there, he relaxed slightly, succumbing to the weakness and dizziness that assaulted him, fighting the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him again. Jesse took the opportunity to radio back to Amanda, reporting what he'd found so far and requesting that she send the other EMT out with a stokes stretcher. He then concentrated on finishing his exam, finding grounds for both concern and relief. There were no broken bones, but there were multiple cuts and bruises, with a worrisome reddish, tender spot over the kidney area indicating possible internal damage, along with the obvious concussion.

Mark lay quietly during the exam, automatically responding to Jesse's queries as the younger doctor worked to determine his physical and mental status, his level of alertness waxing and waning throughout. His concern for his son was obviously the focus of his thoughts, and in his more lucid moments, he questioned Jesse about Steve's condition. Jesse did his best to provide reassuring, slightly evasive responses, knowing that Mark would only be agitated by the knowledge that his son had refused to be relocated until he was found. He consoled himself with the thought that it wouldn't be long now before both Sloans were on their way to the hospital. The EMT should be arriving momentarily with the stokes; Jesse and his companion had disabled those traps they encountered during their search, so the path should be clear and could be traveled now at greater speed. He had hesitated to call the remaining medic away from the cabin, hoping that now that Steve knew that Mark was alive and expected to remain that way, he would allow himself to be taken to the hospital, but that would have meant waiting for the arrival of another ambulance or med-evac copter before Mark could be transported as well. The fastest way to get both their patients to real medical facilities was to get Mark back to the cabin as soon as possible. So Jesse waited as patiently as he could, taking the opportunity to start an IV and hoping that Steve was at least resting more easily now that Mark had been found.

It actually took less time than Jesse had expected before the medic showed up bearing the stretcher. They carefully strapped Mark in and headed back to the cabin as quickly as the terrain would permit. They loaded Mark straight into the ambulance and then went into the cabin to get Steve. Jesse had hoped to find the detective asleep, but although his friend's eyes were closed when he entered, they popped open as soon as the stretcher started to move, as Steve lifted his head to search the surroundings.

"Dad?" he queried urgently, his body tensing for resistance if they hadn't yet returned with Mark.

"He's going to be fine," Jesse soothed, moving to stay in Steve's line of sight as they wheeled him out. "He's already in the ambulance."

Steve lay back down, allowing himself to be rolled along and lifted into the back of the ambulance. He still couldn't relax, however, even when they had secured his stretcher alongside Mark's. Straining to see his father, the sight of the pale face and bandaged head did nothing to reassure him. Reaching out to gently touch the wrapped arm beside him, he softly called, "Dad?"

Blue eyes flickered open, initially heavy-lidded and sluggish, but reassuringly quick to spark with recognition. "Steve?" Concern and relief colored the weakened voice with emotion, as Mark's gaze fastened hungrily on his son. Steve let out a soft sigh of relief, mustering a small grin of reassurance as he finally allowed himself to relax.

Jesse leaned in to check on his patients. "I guess you two get to ride in together," he said, smiling in satisfaction. "And now that everyone's in place…" he leaned over and injected another dose of morphine into Steve's IV. "Have a nice ride," he added, grinning at his friend with a touch of mischief.

The tension that had fueled Steve's fight to stay awake melted away as the effects of the pain medication washed through him in a wave of warmth, carrying him finally into welcome oblivion.


	10. Needed: A New Suspect

**Chapter Ten: Needed: A New Suspect**

The next morning Amanda quietly pushed open the hospital room door and peered inside. She was both pleased and relieved to see that Mark and Steve appeared to be sleeping. Normally, neither man was an ideal patient and asleep was about the only time either one was truly manageable. Jesse was near the window using the minimal light coming through the closed blinds to make notes on a chart. Looking up, he closed the chart and joined Amanda in the hallway. He smiled appreciatively when she handed him a tall Styrofoam cup of coffee from the lobby coffee shop.

"You're a lifesaver, Amanda. Thanks!"

"I thought you could probably use something better than what's in the doctor's lounge."

Jesse took a long, satisfying swallow. "Did you see C.J. and Dion last night?"

Once the ambulance carrying Steve and Mark had arrived at the hospital the night before, Amanda had left to go home. Although serious, their injuries hadn't appeared life threatening and she knew she was leaving them in Jesse's capable hands. She had been anxious to see C.J. and Dion and reassure them in person that Steve would be okay. Now that her sons were getting older, it was getting harder to shield them from the sometimes dangerous situations that Steve's job placed him in. C.J. and Dion loved him very much and Amanda knew they'd be devastated, as they all would, if something ever happened to him.

"They were already asleep, but I saw them this morning. I hated to have to tell them that Mark got hurt too, but they were thrilled to know they both were going to be okay and were already planning to come visit once Mark and Steve are feeling up to it. How'd it go last night? Were you able to get any sleep?"

"I managed to grab a few hours in the on call room. By the time they were settled in their room, it wasn't worth going home." Jesse sighed. "They're both incredibly lucky. Mark has a concussion that will probably keep him down a few days, but that will give his wrist a chance to heal. Thankfully, it's just sprained. The x-ray showed no sign of a break. I also noticed some bruising around one of his kidneys so I ordered some tests, but everything came back negative."

"What about Steve?"

"No sign of any internal bleeding for him either which is nothing short of a miracle considering the bruising on his abdomen. The lacerations on his back are infected and he's running a fever. That's the most worrisome thing right now. The antibiotics haven't taken affect yet and, if they don't in the next couple of hours, I'm going to order something stronger. He probably could've avoided this if he'd let us take him to the hospital right away."

"You know he was never going to leave that cabin without Mark."

"Yeah, I know." Running a hand through his hair, he continued, "We cleaned out the gunshot wounds in his leg and shoulder. His ankle was a mess. I don't think there's any permanent damage, but he'll probably have a few new scars to add to his collection."

What Jesse didn't have to say was that the scars would be both physical and emotional. They still didn't know the whole story of what had happened while Steve had been held in that tiny cabin, but they'd seen how he'd reacted when Mark had thrown the ankle tether against the wall. They were worried the emotional trauma he sustained would take far longer to heal than the physical trauma.

"Have you seen Cheryl?"

"Briefly, last night. I'm kinda surprised she hasn't been by yet this morning."

"What do you say we go pay her a visit? I was at Tucker's school yesterday asking a few questions. Can you get away for a couple of hours?"

"I think it would be okay. Mark and Steve are stable. They should be out of it for a while yet. If anything changes, the nurse can page me."

"I'm going to go in and see them and leave these notes from C.J. and Dion. Why don't you grab a quick shower, and I'll see you in the ER in half an hour?"

Jesse handed her the charts. "Twenty minutes," he threw over his shoulder already headed for the stairs.

_Sloans' Deck_

Cheryl grimaced as she bent down to pick up the scattered papers on the conference room floor. Throwing the Rico Alonso case file in a fit of frustration had been immature, but it certainly had made her feel better. Fortunately, no one had been around to see her momentary descent into childish behavior. Cheryl rubbed the back of her neck where a dull ache had persisted for the past two days. _I'm really overdue for some time off, _she thought. _When Sloan is back on his feet, I'm putting in for a lengthy vacation. I don't even care where I go. Just as long as I'm far away from crime scenes, autopsy reports, cell phones and email. And policy be damned, I'm not leaving a contact number. If they want to find me, they'll have to put out an APB. Maybe I'll even rent a car to make it harder for them. _

Before his foray into the woods after Steve, Doctor Sloan had pretty much established reasonable doubt in the case against Tucker Baxter. Cheryl knew she couldn't go to the Assistant District Attorney with that news. She'd already made the mistake of approaching Captain Newman. He'd almost blown a gasket when she'd mentioned the possibility of Tucker's innocence. The ADA wouldn't be any happier than Captain Newman to hear that his supposed slam-dunk case was now in jeopardy. He'd also be expecting her to have some new information that would restore the case to one he could take into court and win. Since she was sorely lacking in that area, Cheryl wasn't about to incur the wrath of the ADA too. She had no desire to return to uniform which is where she was sure she'd end up if she didn't tread carefully.

"It was so easy when we thought Tucker was the murderer," she muttered to herself. "Should've known it was _too_ easy."

It was unfortunate Doctor Sloan couldn't have provided her with another suspect to investigate. Even a small piece of good news probably would've placated Captain Newman. _Sure, leave me to put all the pieces together by myself, _Cheryl thought then sighed tiredly. She rested her head on the table for a moment. Normally she wasn't this pessimistic about a case but sleep deprivation and stress were making her act and think out of character. It wasn't that she was mad at Steve's dad for establishing doubt. Cheryl knew nothing would be gained by sending an innocent person to jail. She was just tired of staring at the case file and not making any progress.

Closing the reorganized file, Cheryl decided to take a break and go to the hospital. Other than a hurried conversation with Jesse the night before, she hadn't heard any news about Steve and his dad. She'd asked the doctor to call her if anything changed, but her phone had been silent through the long night so she assumed their recoveries were progressing without complications.

Wearily, Cheryl got to her feet. _Maybe a spa_, she thought, her mind drifting back to her much needed vacation. _I could start with a facial and work my way to a full body massage. That would feel great about now._ Opening the conference room door, she pulled up short as she came face to face with Jesse who had his hand poised in midair ready to knock. Amanda was right behind him.

"Did we catch you at a bad time?" Jesse asked.

"Actually, I was just on my way to the hospital, but that can wait a few minutes. How are Steve and Doctor Sloan?"

Jesse briefly described their injuries. "I'm keeping Steve mildly sedated to give his body a chance to start recovering."

"Guess I won't be getting their statements for a while yet." Cheryl cast an appraising look at the doctors. "Although I appreciate it, I doubt you came all the way down here just to give me a medical update."

"We wanted to know if you'd made any progress on the Rico Alonso case."

"That seems to be the only topic on everybody's mind this morning."

Noting the signs of exhaustion on Cheryl's face and the tension in her neck and shoulders, Amanda said, "I suppose everyone is anxious for a resolution."

Cheryl nodded. "Nobody more than me. Come on, I need to get out of here. We can talk at that little outdoor bakery up the street."

Ten minutes later the threesome was seated around a small table coffee cups in front of them. Jesse and Amanda sat silently sensing Cheryl needed a few moments to collect her thoughts. They were anxious to question her about the case but recognized the strain she was under. They had seen a similar look on Steve's face dozens of times when a tough case had him frustrated. Impulsively, Amanda reached out to grasp Cheryl's hand.

"How are you doing?" she asked, gently.

Cheryl glanced up surprised by the question. She gave the doctor a weak smile. "I've been better," she admitted. "I just feel like all I've been doing is beating my head against the wall."

"Maybe it would help to talk about what you've found out so far," Jesse suggested. "Steve doesn't like to admit it, but sometimes it helps him get a fresh perspective if he talks to us."

"I certainly could use a fresh perspective. The file is blurring in front of my eyes. I made matters worse by telling Captain Newman about Doctor Sloan's theory."

"He didn't take the news very well?"

"That's an understatement. Personally, I think that's why Captain Newman was so adamant about him not being at the meeting with the Forest Service yesterday. Little did he know, though, that Doctor Sloan would still end up being the one to find Steve."

"Captain Newman should know by now not to underestimate Mark for a minute," Jesse said. "When it comes to Steve, he has some sort of sixth sense."

"Well thank goodness he does or we still might be trying to find Steve," Amanda said, pushing her cup aside. "Let's start with our victim. What do we know about Rico Alonso?"

"He was a bully who got his kicks tormenting Tucker although he wasn't Rico's only target. I guess just his favorite since he knew he could count on Tucker to react. Rico and his groupies seemed to stay away from the more popular kids preferring to focus on the geeks and slower students."

"What kind of student was he?"

"Average, B's and C's mostly. His counselor said he could've been a better student if he'd applied himself to his studies with the same dedication he had for harassing the other students."

"What about his gang? Any problems, disagreements there?"

"Steve and I interviewed all of Rico's friends after the murder as a matter of routine. There weren't any red flags to indicate trouble within the group."

"So nobody wanted to get rid of Rico to be the head tormentor?"

"Their group isn't a gang in the true sense with officers and a hierarchy. It was just a group of teenage boys who looked up to and followed the lead of one individual. Steve predicted the harassment at the school would decrease with Rico dead because their leader was gone. I guess I'll have to go back to the school and talk to them again, see if they remember anything else."

"So we can pretty much rule out a power struggle as a motive. The usual motives for murder are power, money, greed, love, jealousy, revenge. I think we can rule out money and greed too."

"Revenge is obvious. Tucker was tired of being bullied by Rico and his friends."

"Sounds good, but remember you and Doctor Sloan discovered that Tucker could've wiped the blood on himself because it was smeared rather than splattered. And fingerprint analysis of the hammer indicates Tucker's prints were the only ones on the murder weapon. A dozen or more students had access to and used that hammer every day. Why wipe off all those extra prints just to end up leaving yours on it?"

"You wouldn't. If you were leaving the murder weapon behind, you'd be sure to either leave all the prints on it to make it harder for the cops or wipe it completely clean."

"Unless Tucker didn't have a chance to wipe it off before he was discovered."

"Amanda, are you trying to prove Tucker guilty or innocent?" Jesse complained.

"No, no, that's okay," Cheryl said. "We have to consider every possibility, but with the extra prints wiped off, I'm beginning to think somebody planned the murder. They purposely picked up that hammer to kill Rico and wiped it clean. Tucker just happened to be the poor schmuck who stumbled across the body and, being the dimwit he is, picked up the murder weapon putting his prints on it." Cheryl reached into her pocket and pulled out a small packet. Ripping it open, she shook the two extra strength pain relievers it contained into her hand and washed them down with the last swallow of her cold coffee. "And don't forget we have a sighting of the Baxter jalopy on the school campus the day of the murder," she finished.

"If we continue to follow Mark's theory, then Tucker is trying to protect someone."

"But who?"

"Donald and Cletus are the obvious choices, but Donald was at work. I checked, remember?"

"What about a girlfriend?" Jesse asked.

"Tucker didn't have one that we know of."

"Ahh, but he did," Amanda said. "That's what I wanted to tell you. When I was at the school yesterday, I was in the girls' restroom. It can be a wonderful source of information especially if people don't think anyone will overhear them. The murder and Tucker's arrest still seem to be hot topics of conversation. Apparently another girl, Sandy, was pretty upset about Tucker's arrest. Even missed a couple of days of school after the murder because of some mystery illness. After a few more discreet inquiries, I learned that this Sandy and Tucker had been seen together a lot in the weeks leading up to the murder, but it was only at school. They never went anywhere else together."

"Did you find out why?"

"It seems Tucker told Sandy that Grandpa didn't approve of his having a girlfriend."

"Hmmm." Cheryl mulled over the new information. "It's all interesting, but what would be her motive for killing Rico? I'd think her likely target would've been Grandpa so she and Tucker could go public."

"Maybe she and Rico used to date and he broke it off. Maybe Rico bullied her too and she got tired of it. Maybe - "

"Whoa!" Amanda interrupted Jesse before he could get too carried away. "Those are all possibilities, but I still think if Tucker is protecting anyone it's Cletus. He knew Rico was bullying his grandson. He'd want to protect Tucker and has a long history of violence."

"I almost hope Cletus is our murderer. As far as I'm concerned, a judge won't be able to punish him enough for what he put Steve through." Cheryl heaved her empty cup into a nearby trash bin. "Steve should've finished the old bastard off."

Jesse and Amanda were stunned by Cheryl's harsh tone. They'd never heard the detective speak like that before. "What are you talking about?" asked Jesse.

"You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?" Amanda asked, impatiently.

"Steve is the reason Cletus is in the hospital. I took Donald's statement last night while his father was in surgery. He told me that when he and Doctor Sloan got to the clearing, they found Steve pummeling Cletus. Doctor Sloan had to pull Steve off of him. Donald thinks if they'd gotten there even a couple of minutes later that Steve would've beaten Cletus to death."

_Sloans' Deck_

Amanda and Jesse were still reeling from Cheryl's revelation an hour later as they stood silently in Cletus' room waiting for the detective to begin questioning the hospitalized man. After returning to Community General, they had reviewed Cletus' chart only then learning the true extent of his injuries when he'd been admitted the night before. Amanda was more concerned than ever for the mental health of her dear friend. As a police officer, Steve had been forced to shoot and kill before. The experience always left him shaken, but he'd been able to come to terms with it by recognizing it was sometimes a necessary part of his job. Amanda had never known Steve to use such extreme force before. She wondered again at what horrors had taken place during those few days that would've driven Steve to beat an unarmed man nearly to death.

"Do you think Steve will get in trouble for beating Cletus?" Amanda whispered to Jesse.

Jesse frowned. He hadn't considered that possibility. He'd been too busy considering the emotional ramifications his friend might suffer when confronted with the consequences of his actions. Never mind that Cletus was expected to make a full recovery. Steve had sworn to protect human life and he took that oath very seriously. He was not the type of man who engaged in gratuitous violence.

"I don't know," he whispered back. "He was acting in self-defense."

"Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?" Cheryl's voice reminded them why they were in the room.

"Sure. Where's my boy?"

"Donald's already been arrested and taken to county lock-up which is where you'll be going as soon as your doctor says you're well enough to be moved." Cheryl's voice was cold.

"Will we git to see Tuck?"

"That's not for me to decide. It'll be up to the judge." Cheryl opened her small notebook and took her pen from her pocket. "Tell me, did you know Rico Alonso?"

"Nope."

"But you knew who he was?"

"Damn straight, I did. Him and Tuck was always gittin' into it at school. Him and his so called friends was always pickin' on Tuck."

"Did you know Tucker threatened Rico?"

"Got hisself 'spended 'cuz of it." Cletus almost sounded proud. "Tuck was jist stickin' up for hisself."

"Did you know Tucker had a girlfriend?"

"Damn fool boy."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Sure I knew. Tried to talk 'im outta it too. Them teachers thought Tuck needed some extra help with his studies so she was helpin' 'im after school. Then she started fillin' his head with all these fancy ideas about college." Cletus snorted. "That's for them prissy boys. His pa and me are managin' to scratch out a decent livin' and I 'spect 'im to do the same."

Amanda and Jesse exchanged a glance. If Tucker didn't get away from Cletus' influence, the cycle of violence and poverty would continue into the next generation. They just hoped it wasn't too late for him already.

"I tol' Tuck to stop listenin' to that gal. Women, they jist talk too much and don't make no sense most the time. The best kinda woman knows when to shut her yap and how to satisfy a man's needs. Ain't I right, boy?" Cletus asked Jesse, leering first at Amanda then Cheryl. "No good ever come from bringin' a woman in yer house 'cept for her birthin' babies."

With effort, Cheryl ignored his derogatory comments toward women. "Were you at South Gate Senior High School the day Rico was murdered?"

"I was lookin' for Tuck."

"Why?"

"'Cuz I was still tryin' to talk 'im outta havin' a girlfriend."

"Did you see Tucker that day?"

"Nope, never found 'im."

"And if I ask Tucker if he saw you at school the day of the murder he'll say the same thing? That he never saw you?"

"Yep."

After a few more questions it became apparent Cheryl would get nothing more from the cantankerous old man. Flipping her notebook shut, she walked around to the other side of the bed. Without a word, she picked up Cletus' arm and snapped one end of a pair of handcuffs around his wrist. She attached the other end to the metal bed rail with a satisfying click. Cletus howled in outrage.

"What you done do that fer?"

"I didn't want you getting any ideas that you might be able to slip out of here. Just so you know, there's a police officer standing outside your door. If you so much as breathe wrong, he's got orders to shoot first and ask questions later. I'll be back when you're ready to be moved to jail."

Cheryl stalked from the room. Jesse and Amanda hurried down the hall to catch up with her. She finally slowed her paced as she neared a visitor's waiting room. Seeing that it was empty, she went inside.

"What a disgusting man!" Cheryl burst out, clenching and unclenching her fists. "I just wanted to- " she stopped and took a deep breath. "Forget it, he's not worth wasting my breath on."

"Cheryl, I'm sorry, but I just have to ask. What you said earlier, about wishing Steve had finished Cletus off. Did you really mean that?"

The detective studied the carpet for a long, silent moment. "No," she said, finally. "That comment was out of line. Steve would hate that I said it. He's an honorable man and for him to act like he did is so out of character." Cheryl looked up at the doctors. "I'd appreciate it if we could keep my outburst just between the three of us."

"Of course. Jesse and I know you've been under a great deal of stress with the case and Steve being kidnapped. I'm amazed you're still functioning. We can forget your momentary lapse of judgment."

"Thank you. I don't know how Doctor Sloan treated that man while they were waiting for the helicopter to arrive. It must've taken a lot out of him."

"Speaking of Mark, I'd better go check on him and Steve. It seems like Mark should be starting to come around pretty soon. I don't want him to wake up alone if I can help it."

"My shift starts in 10 minutes," Amanda said, "or I'd come with you. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"And I should be getting back to the precinct," Cheryl added. "After a quick report to Captain Newman, I'm going to head back to the school and re-interview Rico's friends. And I'll have to find this Sandy and see what she has to say."

"Good luck with Captain Newman."

"Facing him will be a walk in the park after listening to Cletus Baxter." Cheryl made a face. "I almost feel like I need a shower after talking to him."

"If there's anything else we can do, let us know."

"You've been a great help." Cheryl smiled at the doctors. "Now I know why Steve considers you an important part of his team."

_Sloans' Deck_

Jesse stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall toward the room Mark and Steve shared. As he rounded the corner, he could see the drug cart parked outside their door. Jesse called out a greeting to the nurse who was measuring out doses of medication for the patients on the floor.

"Oh Doctor Travis, I was just about to page you," he said.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, I think Doctor Sloan is starting to wake up. I thought you'd want to be here."

"What about Lieutenant Sloan?"

"His vitals are stable. He's still running a fever, but it has dropped a degree in the last hour. I think the antibiotics have kicked in now."

Jesse was pleased. Accepting the charts the nurse handed him, he entered the room taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A quick check of Steve's monitors confirmed what the nurse had told him. He was readjusting the drip on Steve's IV line when a soft moan from Mark's direction had him turning to the other bed.

"Mark?" Eyes flickered but did not open. "Mark, open your eyes for me."

With agonizing slowness, Mark's eyes drifted open. They closed again briefly before reopening and settling on Jesse. "Hey, it's good to see you awake," Jesse teased, softly.

"Wha - what - " Mark's throat was dry and his voice was hoarse.

"Wait a minute. Let me get you some water." Jesse poured a small amount of water in the plastic cup and held it steady while Mark took a few sips through the straw. "Better?" he asked when Mark had finished.

Mark nodded then winced as the motion intensified the throbbing in his head. Shifting slightly so he could get a better look at his surroundings, the movement reawakened all the aches and pains the falling rocks from Cletus' booby trap had caused.

"What - I don't remember - "

"That's not surprising. You took quite a knock to the head."

"How long have I been out?"

"Just overnight, about 12 or 13 hours. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Steve? Did - did I dream it? That we found him?"

"Nope, that wasn't a dream. He's right here, in the next bed." Jesse pointed to the other bed and its sleeping occupant.

Despite the pain it caused, Mark turned his head needing to assure himself that what Jesse said was true. He propped himself up on a shaky elbow drinking in the sight of his son and wishing he had the strength to go to him and touch him. Steve had a bandage on his shoulder and leg and his swollen and abraded ankle was elevated but to Mark he had never looked better. After wondering if he would ever see his son again, he could've looked at him forever but weakness forced him back against the pillows.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"He wasn't quite as bad off as Humpty Dumpty, but we managed to put him back together again. Everything should heal with time."

"Has he been awake?"

"I've been giving him a very mild sedative just to make sure he stays asleep long enough for his body to start healing. I'll stop it now and the next time you wake up he should be awake too. You know if I didn't take that precaution, he'd be sitting at your bedside which wouldn't do either one of you any good."

Mark smiled faintly recognizing the truth of Jesse's words. As he allowed himself to relax, memories of their ordeal began flickering through his brain like one of his old home movies. One particularly nasty scene made him gasp and his eyes flew open again.

"Mark?" Jesse questioned, concerned by the behavior.

"Jesse, Steve - he did something - he hurt - "

"Shh, Mark, I know. We know what happened." Jesse hastened to set his friend's mind at ease. "He's going to need you in the next few days so you have to get some rest so you can be there for him."

"He'll need all of us."

"And we'll be here," Jesse promised. "Amanda and I will do whatever we can to help him through this."

Reassured Steve would not be alone, Mark settled more comfortably against the pillows. Drowsiness began to come over him, and he suspected it had something to do with whatever it was that Jesse had injected into his IV line. Deciding it was worth the pain, Mark turned his head for one more look at his son. He was comforted by the fact that the last thing he saw before drifting back to sleep was Steve sleeping peacefully in the bed next to him.


	11. Breaking Down

**Chapter Eleven: Breaking Down**

_It was the faint rattling sound that came to his attention first, softly at the beginning, then more harshly. He twitched his ankle automatically in response. It felt heavy and confined, something clinched tightly around it, a deep burning ringing it. He shifted restlessly, trying to kick it off. The rattling grew more pronounced, but now it only underscored another sound: a coarse, stuttering laughter. He tried to cover his ears, but his hands were caught somehow, tangled in something. His heart picked up pace, thumping loudly inside his chest. A pair of squinting, malevolent eyes swam before him, still laughing. "Enjoyed it, didn't you, cop?" _

_No. No, I didn't. I hated it. I hate myself for it. _

_"Felt good, didn't it?" _

_His heart thumped harder, choking him. _

_"Steve." A different voice this time, one he knew as well as he knew his own, but the faint note of recrimination there made him wince, kept him from looking. "Steve, how could you, son?"_

_I don't know, Dad, I don't know. I didn't mean - I'm sorry…_

_"That's not what I taught you, son. Human life is sacred."_

_I know . . . his stomach roiled within him, pushed itself up against his heart. I know . . . I don't understand what happened . . . _

_"Gets better every time, boy." The hated voice persisted gleefully. "Next time you'll like it even more. Afore you know it, you'll be looking' fer reasons ta do it."_

_I won't! I - _

_"He's right, Steve." His father sounded so sad, he still couldn't bring himself to look at him. "I'm sorry, but he's right, Violence begets violence. Once you misuse your position that way it becomes an easy answer to everything. I'm very disappointed, son."_

_Me too, Dad - me too . . . but I don't think - _

_"Man needs to fight for what's his. Others get hurt, well, that's just too dang bad - right, boy?"_

_No! It's NOT right. Might does NOT equal right - the weak deserve protection too - _

_"That was before, son." The sorrow in his father's voice cracked his heart. "Now you're just another bully, preying on the weak - "_

_No! No, Dad, I just - I don't know what - never again . . "_

_"I'm afraid it's not that simple, son . . ." The beloved voice seemed to be getting fainter, the vicious laughter louder and nearer. "Once you cross the line, it's not that simple to go back. After all, look what you did to me."_

_Startled, Steve turned to look in the direction of his father's voice for the first time. The figure was in shadow, but there was no mistaking the patches of blood staining his head and his face and his chest. He swayed, his eyes empty and sad. _

_Steve felt the air explode out of him_. "Dad!"

The sound of his own voice shook him awake, the dark around him melting away, replaced by the prosaic white walls of a hospital room, the tangle of voices evaporating under the soft, rhythmic sounds of the hospital in motion. Steve stayed very still, trying to orient himself. His right arm twinged and he realized that he had somehow pushed himself up on his elbows and sank back slowly against the pillows, rubbing absently at the back of the right arm. His fingers came in contact with a square dressing there and he twisted to try and see. Gradually he recalled the small shot wounds and let the arm fall. _Oh. _Everything rushed back and he pressed his hands over his eyes. _Oh, God. What have I done?_

Nausea boiled through him. How had he gotten here? He had the smallest glimmer of a confused memory about that, of people and voices and needles sticking in him and - _Oh, God. Dad - ?_

He turned his head, trying to get his bearings, saw the next bed and stopped, let his breath out in a slow, careful sigh.

_Dad. Oh, thank God_. He spent a few seconds watching his father's chest go up and down in what seemed to be a peaceful sleep, then decided that he had to have a better look. Cautiously, he bolstered himself upright, using his good arm. His back tightened and prickled a warning, his head swam. He sat still, giving things a second to settle.

Everything hurt. Not acutely - in a sort of distant, can't-quite-care-about-it kind of way, so they must have him on something. He saw that one ankle and the other shin were both bandaged and sighed quietly. That was inconvenient. He eased them carefully over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It was really hot in here. Were they afraid they were going to freeze to death? Of course, Dad was older - maybe he needed it warm.

He tried out his feet, testing how they would hold him, clinging to the pole that held his IV for support. He rocked a little, then steadied. Not too bad. But the heat was suddenly swallowed up by a sweeping chill that started at his head and traveled down to his feet, engulfing him. He shivered. Must be something wrong with the heating system. He'd have to tell a nurse about it. Balancing carefully, he pulled an extra blanket off the end of the bed and dragged it over his shoulders. That was a little better.

Shuffling, he made his way to the next bed and leaned against his IV pole, looking. His father's head was bandaged and his wrist was braced, but otherwise he looked all right. Tired, maybe. There didn't seem to be any extreme measures of life support, so that was good. He wished he knew how to read a chart. Another shiver shook him and he pulled his blanket tighter around him. Somebody needed to turn down that air conditioning.

Maybe he could ask a nurse for the details on his father's condition. He tried to peer more closely at the bandage on the tousled white head, suddenly flashed back to his dream and felt his knees almost give underneath him. _No. No, he hadn't done this. Not technically, anyway, though in a way . . ._

He closed his eyes. _God. Dad was alive, but Cletus . . . ? _He looked back at his father, awash in a mix of apology and sorrow. The room suddenly seemed too small, hot and cold at the same time. He leaned harder into the IV pole. He needed to get out - to find things out. He needed to know . . .

He moved slowly toward the door, using the IV pole to support first the bad ankle and then the bad shin, thinking how thoughtful it was of them to provide these things with wheels.

The hospital corridor was an explosion of sound after the quiet of the small room and he stood for a second, getting his bearings. Spotting the nurses' station, he pushed himself slowly toward it. He was secretly pleased to see a nurse he didn't know and he pressed one hip against the station wall for a little extra support and tried to summon a smile. "Excuse me - "

The nurse glanced up from the computer screen she was busy with and offered him a professional flash of teeth. "How can I help you?" Her smile slipped a little as she looked him over. "Do you need help getting back to your room?"

"No - " Steve thought his answer came out a little too fast and tried the smile again. Even he could tell it was a pallid version of his usual one, but he continued doggedly, "Prescribed exercise." It wasn't a total lie - they were always prescribing that here. "I was wondering if you could give me some information on a couple of patients?"

"Certainly." The brisk efficiency returned. "Name?"

"Dr. Mark Sloan?"

"Let's see . . ." She pushed a few keys and scrolled through something while Steve waited, letting the station take a little more of his weight. "Mark Sloan . . . condition is fair, moderate concussion, sprained wrist . . . no reason why he shouldn't be back on his feet in a few days." The professional smile beamed out again.

Steve felt the breath rush out of him. "That's great." His voice cracked a little and he took a second to clear his throat. The next one was a big one. What if . . . but he wouldn't think of that. Not until he had to. Just ask, he ordered himself. "How about . . . Cletus Baxter?"

The nurse tapped a couple of more keys and frowned as the screen scrolled before her. "Baxter, Cletus . . . hm . . . looks like last night he was upgraded from critical to serious . . . flail chest, pneumothorax, but the lung's been reinflated and is responding well, some serious contusions . . . he's not in good shape, but right now the prognosis is positive. If he continues to improve, they'll move him from the ICU at the end of the day."

For a second Steve couldn't speak. He caught himself with his free hand on the station countertop as the floor gave an abrupt shift, closing his eyes quickly against a rush of moisture behind his lids. Relief seemed to have melted all his bones and for a second he wasn't sure he wasn't going to make a scene, collapsing right here in the corridor.

"Sir?" The nurse's voice brought him back to himself and he reached deep down inside for every ounce of remaining steel.

He had a feeling that the smile he pinned on this time was woefully lame, but he forced it into place anyway and asked, "Where did you say he was located?"

The nurse hesitated, her eyes suddenly narrowed. "Are you sure you're supposed to be out of bed?"

Steve remembered his dream and shuddered. "I'm sure. Where . . "

The nurse looked like she wanted to ask another question, but the phone chose that moment to ring and she reached over to answer it. Steve took advantage of the distraction to move behind her and glance at the computer screen. He was surprised to find that his eyes weren't working quite right so it took him a couple of precious seconds to bring the tiny type into focus, but he managed to read "Fifth Floor ICU, Cubicle 6" and shuffle away towards the elevator before the nurse could finish her call and question him more closely.

The elevator door obligingly slid open as he approached and he stepped inside, half-supported by the IV stand, and let the door shush closed behind him. Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall to rest. His back instantly reminded him what a bad idea that was and he teetered forward again, swearing softly at the pain, turning until he could lean against the wall on his shoulder instead. He fumbled for the button for the fifth floor and pushed.

The elevator bumped to a stop a minute later and he glanced up at the lights over the door. Two more floors to go. A couple of more passengers joined him and the doors slid shut again. He closed his eyes to enjoy the ride.

"Sir?" This voice was unfamiliar, as was the tentative touch on his arm. He opened his eyes and blinked. "I think this is your floor?"

He frowned drowsily, glancing over the door again. Well, since that was the only button left lit and it said five, she must be right. He realized with a flash of embarrassment that he must have been asleep. "Thanks . . . " His voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat again. This elevator had gotten awfully hot, too - must be a problem all over the hospital.

"Do you need help . . . ?"

He shifted his blanket and eased himself upright, clutching the IV pole. "I'm fine . . . " That sounded unconvincing, even to him, so he tried another of the not-so-good smiles. "I mean, this is my floor."

The woman looked dubious, but held the door for him as he tottered out into the corridor. This floor was quieter, and he stood looking for the signs with the little arrows that would tell him which way to go. One arrow was labeled ICU and he wheeled his stand in that direction, his leg and ankle complaining loudly at the activity. A wheelchair might not have been the worst idea in the world, but it was too late for that now . . .

He rounded a corner and saw the row of glassed-in cubicles with the ICU station before it, positioned so that the nurse could track all the monitors and keep a visual

inventory of all the patients at once. He sighed. At last. This must be how Sir Edmund Hillary felt when he reached the top of Mount Everest.

He thought about asking the nurse about Cletus, but he really didn't need to - he could spot his cubicle from here and could see him sleeping. His eyes took in the hand cuffed to the bed rail and the uniformed officer sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup nearby. Straightening his shoulders as best he could, he headed for the police guard.

"Excuse me, Officer - " he frowned hard at the name tag. " - Darby." Hopefully, he'd come close, anyway. "I'm Lt. Sloan - " Belatedly, he realized that he had neither badge

nor official ID to prove that, and gestured feebly to his hospital ID bracelet instead. Of course, it said _Sloan, S. _and his room number, nothing about his rank, but maybe…?

The officer looked immediately sober, and - Steve winced a little - sympathetic. He read the ID bracelet respectfully. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"

Steve thought of mentioning that if he could find him a new body that would be really helpful, but he refrained and said instead. "Donald Baxter - is he around?"

The officer looked grim. "No, sir. He's in the county lockup." Then added with some feeling, "Better than he deserves, if you ask me."

Steve thought about reprimanding him, but decided that he was in no position to be giving lectures on conduct to anybody at the moment. "I see." He rubbed a hand over his forehead, shaking away a slick of sweat that had gathered there. "-wanted to talk to him-" His knees buckled so suddenly that he barely caught himself on the IV stand in time. Officer - Darby? Darly? Darcy? shot a hand out and supported his elbow and he hung there for a moment, trying to gather himself.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Steve nodded, not quite daring to speak. When everything steadied a little he muttered apologetically, "Maybe if I sat down for just a minute . . . "

The officer led him to a nearby sofa, tactfully placed out of the way but still in view of the cubicles, and helped him to lower himself onto it. Steve couldn't repress a gasp of relief at finally being off his feet. "Thanks . . . " He leaned back slowly, testing his back.

The officer hovered, looking young and concerned. "Should I call someone, sir? I could help you back to your room . . . "

Steve turned cold inside at the mention of his room and the cold spread through his bones, tingling along the surface of his skin. He pulled the blanket tighter, huddling inside it. "No, no - " he hoped he sounded reassuring. "I'm fine. I'll just sit here for a second."

The officer looked unconvinced, but Steve knew the habit of his training would compel him to obey. For good measure he added, "Your station, officer?" And watched with satisfaction as the officer reluctantly returned to his post by the entryway of Cubicle 6.

Steve let his eyes drift past him to the interior of the cubicle. Cletus did indeed look very much alive. Still, he wished he could talk to Donald. But maybe talking to Cletus would be just as good. He closed his eyes and thought about what he wanted to say.

_Sloans' Deck_

Cheryl rounded the corner of the corridor, her eyes on the pad in one hand, her other hand kneading at a tight spot on the back of her neck that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.

She had questioned Sandy Green and still couldn't decide if it had put her further ahead or further behind. She had seemed like a sweet girl, with a quiet, serious face, and as hard as she tried, she couldn't picture her taking a hammer to anybody. Still. If there was one thing that working Homicide taught you, it was that people surprised you pretty much every day. She sighed to herself. That meant that she got to spend a little more quality time with Cletus Baxter. Much as she tried to maintain her professionalism, she had to admit that she wasn't looking forward to it.

She was so intent on her notebook and her thoughts that she almost missed the sofa in her path and just stopped herself from cracking a knee against it. Embarrassed, she looked up to apologize to the occupant, stopped, suddenly silent. After a frowning moment, she seated herself next to the figure on the sofa instead, then reached out to touch the blanketed arm. "Hey."

Heavy lids peeled reluctantly back over a pair of fever-bright eyes and the figure tried to straighten up, gave it up quickly and slumped down again. "Hey, yourself. What are you doing here?"

"Working. What's your excuse?"

"Me too."

"Uh huh." Cheryl resisted the urge to reach over and feel his forehead. "Why do I get the feeling you're AWOL?"

Steve blinked and ran a hand over his face to rouse himself, neatly avoiding the question. "I wanted to talk to Donald. But he's in custody?"

"Of course he is." Her voice was a little sharper than she'd intended.

Steve nodded groggily, making another attempt to sit up straighter. "I thought maybe - because of his dad - "

"Once Cletus was downgraded from critical we took him into custody. Normal procedure."

Steve gave a shorter nod, his face unreadable. "He saved my life," he said quietly after a moment.

"He kidnapped you. Started this whole thing in motion. If it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be hurt in the first place."

"Still." He looked away from her, eyes on the glass cubicle. "He - I didn't mean just that. If - he hadn't brought my Dad at just that moment . . . " She watched the Adam's apple in his throat bob spasmodically, his eyes studiously avoiding hers. "I did this, Cheryl." The voice was so soft she only just caught the words.

She found his forearm again under the blanket and pressed it lightly. "I know."

Startled, he did meet her eyes this time. Whatever he had expected to see there must have been missing, because he seemed to relax a little. "I wanted to - tell him how sorry I was. Not explain - I - can't explain - just - let him know I was sorry. That I appreciated . . . "

He broke off and scrubbed the heel of his hand at his eyes and for one terrible second Cheryl was terrified that he might cry. And if he did cry, the shaky house of cards she had been holding together for days would all fall down and she would start to bawl like a three year old and maybe never stop. She couldn't decide which of them that would be more humiliating for, so her voice had a biting edge that she hoped would forestall any emotional scenes when she retorted, "You wanted to apologize to _him_. Now, that's rich."

Steve just looked at her. "The one thing doesn't make the other right," he pointed out wearily.

"Just what I was thinking."

"Cheryl, his father almost died because of me."

"Yeah? Your father isn't looking too good either. And directly or indirectly, that's because of him."

The stricken look on Steve's face made her sorry the second she said it, but after a pause he gave an abbreviated nod, rubbing a hand over his mouth, then bent forward to bury his face in his hands.

Cheryl's heart twisted inside her. "Steve, listen to me." She softened her voice just a little, but tried to keep it matter-of-fact. "The problem with a felony is that it tends to escalate and turn into two felonies, or more - robbery becomes rape, rape becomes murder, murder becomes multiple murders - it all gets out of control. That's just one reason it's such a bad idea and a really big crime. But that's the responsibility of the felon. You were just - dragged into the middle of it and doing what you had to to survive. The responsibility wasn't yours, it was Donald's. I'm sorry his father got hurt too - well, sorry might be too strong a word - but those are the consequences of playing with fire. Besides, it looks like the old coot is going to pull through just fine."

Steve nodded dully. "That's what the nurse told me."

"Then why don't you let me take you back to your room and we'll cross any other bridges as we get to them?"

Steve was silent for so long that she leaned in close to make sure that he hadn't drifted off, but he finally whispered, so quietly that she could barely make out the words, "I can't face him."

Cheryl rumpled her forehead. _Couldn't face . . . the Captain? Cletus? Donald . . . ? Oh! _"Oh, Steve!" She was almost speechless. "Your Dad!"

Steve didn't answer, just kneaded between his brows.

"Steve," She tried to catch his eyes, "your Dad doesn't blame you! He's just so glad and so relieved to have you back - I honestly don't think he can even focus on anything else!"

"I know that - I mean, I know how he is." Steve's voice sounded unutterably weary. "That's not - that's not the point."

"Then you're going to have to explain the point to me, because I'm missing it."

Steve sighed through his nose, his gaze drifting back to Cubicle #6. "He taught me better. What I did was against everything - he ever taught me. He had a right to expect better from me - he _deserved_ better from me. No matter how you look at it, Cheryl, I let him down. Let the department down - let myself down."

"I see." Cheryl found her temper mounting unreasonably . "So I suppose I'm on that list? I suppose you let me down too? Or do I get some say in how I feel about that?"

Steve looked at her, shook his head. "Leave it alone, Cheryl."

"I don't think I can. Steve, I talked to that man under perfectly safe and sane circumstances for about ten minutes and _I_ was ready to throttle him - for the life of me, I don't know how you held out as long as you did. I think that you both came out of this alive is a testament to the kind of man you are."

"I'm not so sure that I know what kind of man that is any more."

"No? Then I'll tell you. You're the man I trust my life to every single day. You're the man I trust to do the up and up on the job. You're the man I count on to toe the line, to be there for me, no matter what happens, and for me, none of that has changed. I look at you and I still see the same man." She wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but she didn't dare risk touching his back, so she rested it gently on the back of his head instead, drew it away with a frown. "And a man who should be in bed. You're really hot, Steve."

"Yeah, I think there's something wrong with the hospital's heating/cooling system."

"Well, I think there's something wrong with somebody's heating/cooling system, but I don't think it's the hospital's since I'm perfectly comfortable. Let me take you back to your bed?"

Steve ignored the question. "Cheryl, I - know you mean what you said, but you're my friend and you're just a little prejudiced in my favor."

"Maybe I spend a lot of time with you under a lot of really terrible circumstances and I just know you really well - maybe better than you know yourself. And I know something else, too - Cletus Baxter is a very lucky man."

Steve almost smiled at that. "Really. How do you figure."

"Because you got to him before I did."

Steve's smile grew to a short laugh, then died almost as quickly as he studied her expression. Cheryl shrugged mentally. He must have noticed that she wasn't joking.

Steve dropped his eyes, studied his fingers picking nervously at the blanket binding as though that required all his focus. "So," he said finally. "What have you got?"

Cheryl didn't quite manage to suppress a sardonic grin.

_Ah. Work. A nice, safe refuge from emotional overload for both of them. _She glanced down at her notebook. "Lots of questions, but not a lot of answers. You know, we found some flaws in the physical evidence. Tucker Baxter could be innocent." The fragile hope that lit Steve's face made her almost wish that she hadn't told him. _No, no Steve - don't get emotionally invested. Don't make it personal. _On the other hand, after what he'd been through, how could it not be?

"There you are! I - Steve!" Even if the voice hadn't been familiar, the tone - shocked, reproving, indignant, concerned, would have been unmistakable. Cheryl noticed with some amusement Steve's guilty schoolboy expression, quickly quashed under one of defensive stubbornness.

"Hi, Amanda . . . " He made a weak attempt at an innocent smile.

Amanda, less reticent than Cheryl, threw her arms around him, keeping them carefully about his neck where they wouldn't cause him much pain. After a startled hesitation, Steve hugged her gently back. Cheryl got a glimpse of his face and for a second was sure that she was going to break down and cry after all.

Amanda pulled back to get a look at him, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruise at his temple, then the one on his jaw. "Steve, you're burning up. What is your temperature? Does Jesse know you're wandering around? I'll bet he doesn't. What have they - " She broke off as she caught sight of his IV bag, got up to take a closer look. "These things have to be replaced on schedule, you know, and yours is getting low. When's the last time you had your meds?"

Steve held up the hand that wasn't cinching the blanket closed, trying to stop the flow of words long enough to answer at least one of the questions. "I woke up and didn't want to disturb Dad, so I took a little walk."

"_Disturb_ him!" Amanda placed her hands on her hips. "And what do you think you could do lying in bed resting that would disturb him?"

A shadow passed over Steve's face.

Amanda must have seen it too, because Cheryl could almost watch her adjust her next sentence from her original intent. She pressed her lips together for a minute then ordered, "You wait here," and hurried toward the ICU nurse.

"I wasn't going anywhere," Steve mumbled under his breath, then looked embarrassed when he realized that Cheryl had overheard him. He looked at his hands again, clearing his throat. "Have any suspects?" he persisted.

Cheryl glanced over at the ICU station. She couldn't hear the conversation, but she could see Amanda's bright, persuasive smile. "Maybe. But since Amanda put me onto one of them, I'd like to wait for her." She watched Amanda take something from the ICU nurse, then proffer one more of her gracious smiles before heading back in their direction with her quick, light step. As she got close, Cheryl could see that she was carrying a regulation hospital tumbler with a plastic straw poking out of the lid.

Amanda handed it to Steve. "Sip on that. Can I get you anything, Cheryl?" she added, looking a little flustered to have overlooked her.

"If I want anything, I can get it myself," Cheryl assured her. "I saw Sandy Green."

"Oh!" Amanda seemed to remember why she was there in the first place. "That's why I was looking for you - I certainly didn't expect to find _you_." She fixed Steve with a stern glance. "I went over the autopsy report again."

"Well?" Steve broke in impatiently when she didn't seem to be continuing.

Amanda folded her arms, gesturing to the cup with her chin. "I said to drink that."

Steve rolled his eyes, but sucked obediently on the straw.

Amanda beamed smug satisfaction. "I wanted to review a few things in light of Sandy as a possible suspect. Given the placement of the wounds and their depth, the killer could be a woman. I'd even go so far as to say that it's likely."

Cheryl chewed her lip. "Cletus' truck was there that day. And he isn't tall."

Steve shook his head. "I don't like Cletus for this."

Cheryl stared. "Why's that? You think he couldn't pound somebody with a hammer? Cause if that's what you think, I'll get you a mirror."

"It's not that." Steve caught sight of Amanda's brows, pointedly lifted in his direction, and took another swallow from the straw, tossing her a _"Satisfied?" _look. Amanda smiled benevolent approval. "- it's that I can't see him pretending that he didn't do it. If he clubbed somebody with a hammer, I think he'd be bragging about it, pointing out to anybody who would listen how justified he was. I don't see him keeping quiet and hiding behind his grandson. Besides - " he rubbed unconsciously at the bruise on his jaw. "If I'm following what Amanda's saying, the wounds are lower and shallower than she'd expect from a man. Cletus has plenty of muscle. Believe me." The rueful note in Steve's voice made Cheryl wince and Amanda impulsively cover his hand with her own.

Cheryl jumped into the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Steve, it's probably sheer spite on my part, but I still like Cletus better than little Sandy Green. She seems like a sweet kid - truly worried about Tucker and bewildered by what she's found herself in the middle of. I honestly don't think that she could hurt a fly."

"I agree that I'd rather it was Cletus, but Steve is right - it doesn't fit," Amanda argued. "Suppose Rico attacked Sandy or attacked Tucker? If she was terrified enough, instinct could take over. Anyone can become violent under the right circumstances, if you're threatened enough or scared enough - " She caught sight of Steve's face, saw the meager color leech away, leaving it transparently white and rigid, his eyes inexorably drawn to the ICU cubicles. She broke off in horror. "Oh, Steve - I didn't mean - I'm so sorry!"

Steve's hands flexed on the blanket. He swallowed, then swallowed again. He held himself stiffly, but finally managed a semblance of a smile so forced that Cheryl was sure that this time she really was going to weep. "It's okay." His voice was thin and unconvincing. He must have heard it himself, because he coughed to clear his throat and tried again. "It's a good point. What other women are there in Tucker's life?"

Cheryl and Amanda exchanged a speaking glance, then Cheryl shrugged and answered, "None that we know of. No special teachers, or friends, or counselors…"

"What about Tucker's mother?" Steve made a face at the suggestion of a tremor that edged the words, dragged his eyes determinedly away from Cletus.

"His mother's dead, remember? AIDS? Had a crack habit?"

Steve shrugged deeper into the blanket, drawing in on himself. "We know that for sure?"

"Of course we do. Who lies about a thing like that?"

"I don't know - it's an easy world to disappear into. Maybe Donald wanted the baby and she needed money. Crack addicts usually do. Maybe they cut a deal."

Amanda sighed. "Steve, that is so - either you're delirious, or you've been secretly watching the Soap Channel." She reached out to touch his forehead again, but Steve ducked away from her.

"It's worth looking into," he insisted stubbornly.

Cheryl eyed him intently. She couldn't decide if he really believed this or was just grasping at any straw to distract himself from Cubicle #6 and the chain of events that had led to it. "Look, Steve - " she tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, but she secretly agreed with Amanda that there was more fever talking here than police work. "You really think Tucker would go to prison for a mother he didn't even know?"

"A kid who grows up without a mother can easily idealize the idea of one. Could go to a lot of extremes to protect that ideal - " He looked hopefully at Cheryl.

She watched the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat and grimaced. _Well, if it makes him feel better_…she threw up her hands. "All right, I'll check it out! The Captain can't think I'm any crazier than he already does."

Cheryl watched Steve's eyes try to narrow at her, could tell that they didn't quite focus. "Trouble?"

Cheryl smiled. "Nothing that I can't handle."

Steve studied her a little longer, then nodded, blotting at his forehead with the blanket. "Okay. Good. Thanks." His eyes drifted past her, over her shoulder, then squinted in irritation. "Oh, for - what did you guys do? Form a posse?"

Cheryl followed his gaze and saw the inevitable - Jesse hurrying toward them, managing to look simultaneously exasperated and relieved.

He skidded to a stop beside the sofa, eyeing his patient critically. "I should have known I'd find you here. Didn't your father ever teach you to tell people where you're going?"

"I just went for a walk!"

"Yeah, and I've got a floor nurse trying to administer meds wringing her hands and looking for her lost patient, and your Dad wondering where you are - I made up some lame story about tests - now I've got to think of some tests you might have that he would believe but not be scared to death about."

At the mention of his father, Steve's face changed. He wiped at his forehead with his wrist, frowning. "You told him I'm okay?"

Jesse perched on the arm of the sofa and pressed the back of his hand against Steve's forehead. "Steve, he's seen you - he _knows_ you're not okay." He made a face and lifted his hand away, picked up the IV bag instead. "You need a new one of these - let's go back to your room. You've got a date with a nurse and a hypodermic."

"I don't want to be doped up."

Cheryl glanced at him in surprise - the words were Steve's standard tough-guy response, but the tone had a thin thread of panic in it.

Jesse evidently heard it too, because he dropped the IV bag with a thoughtful frown. "Sorry, buddy, but I think you need a little something to take the edge off."

"It's not that bad - I can hang on without it."

Jesse raised a questioning eyebrow at Cheryl and Amanda, but continued calmly, "Now, see, here's the deal - the idea isn't to waste more of your energy on trying to fight the pain. The meds are supposed to kill some of the pain so that you can relax and recover."

"I don't need them."

This time Jesse sat very still and looked hard at him, hearing something underneath the stubbornness - a note almost of incipient hysteria. "Yeah, well, okay." He plucked up a smile that was almost as fake as Steve's. "Then let's at least get you a new bag of saline anyway, huh? You need to stay hydrated. Come on." He reached for Steve's arm to help him up.

Steve froze, thoughts visibly churning behind his eyes. "I'm going to stay here."

Jesse sighed patiently. "Steve, you can't. You need to lie down. And your Dad needs to see you - he's worried - c'mon, imagine how he feels." The bicep under his hand went as rigid as stone. Jesse scrunched his brows together, looking from Amanda to Cheryl for help - insight - anything. He caught Amanda's eyes and jerked his head meaningfully towards the ICU nurse's station. Amanda slipped quietly away in that direction. Jesse watched her go, mindlessly patting Steve's arm.

She was back only a short time later and the syringe in her hand was casually concealed, but Steve caught sight of it anyway and tried to jerk his arm away from Jesse's grasp. "Jesse - no - I don't want to sleep!"

The confession sounded as if it had been torn from him and Jesse stared, shocked, his own jaw working. After a second he got up from the arm of the sofa and squatted in front of Steve, resting his hands lightly on his knees. "Look, I know you've been through a lot, buddy, but I'm only trying to help, okay? Let me help. You've really got to get some rest."

Steve must have noticed how shaken Jesse was, because he gave him a desperate, apologetic look and made a visible effort to pull himself together. "I - had this dream," he muttered in a low voice.

Jesse held his eyes, tightening his grip on Steve's knee. Cheryl swallowed hard at the tension knotting his face, wishing there was something she could do to help, but despite his obvious distress, Jesse's voice was calm and soothing. "Yeah, okay, I get it. Maybe I have something that will help with that. Now, will you let me get you back to your Dad?"

Steve turned to look at Cheryl, the pulse in his neck beating fast and furious. Cheryl tried to summon a reassuring smile, knowing he was too embarrassed to admit to Jesse and Amanda what he had half-inadvertently confessed to her.

"It'll be okay, Steve." She tried to smile. "You know how things are always worse in your head. You'll feel better if you talk to your Dad. I really think so."

Steve opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes suddenly widened. He turned his head sharply to stare accusingly at Jesse.

Jesse was efficiently finishing emptying the syringe into Steve's thigh, his face showing guiltily that he considered himself the worst kind of traitor.

"I know, I know - " He avoided Steve's eyes and handed the empty syringe back to Amanda. "Dirty trick, and you can kill me once you're back on your feet, but first I have to make sure you GET back on your feet. You're getting yourself all worked up and spiking your fever. I need to settle you down."

Steve opened his mouth again to retort, closed it, his eyes suddenly losing focus. He gripped the arm of the sofa. "I - " he blinked, seemed to collapse in on himself.

Jesse held onto his other wrist, counting, shook his head. "Man, you're fighting it. Just take a couple of deep breaths for me."

Steve swiveled, trying to get a glimpse of Cletus. "I - " He closed his eyes, dragged them open again. "Let - let me walk…"

"Yeah, like you could even manage that."

"No - wheelchair…"

"Wheelchair? Nothing but the best for you - you'll be traveling in style, by gurney. Come on - another deep breath."

Cheryl gave his arm a squeeze, trying to draw his eyes away from the ICU cubicle. "Hey, I'll look into things for you, okay? You talk to your Dad."

Steve blinked uncertainly at her. "Tell - Dad - sorry…" His eyes drifted closed.

"That's better," Jesse's tone was light, but surprisingly gentle. "In a little while you'll be able to tell him yourself. Just let it go…"

Steve struggled with his lids. "Jess - "

"Yeah. I'm not going anywhere. You just relax - your ride's here."

"I wanted - " Steve's eyes rolled back in his head.

"That's better. Say good night, Gracie." Jesse peeled back one lid to check, then folded the blanket more tightly around him and smoothed it down, finishing with a pat. "Yup. That does it. Orderly - ?"

A pair of orderlies standing nearby, just out of sight, moved forward with a gurney and began to load Steve as efficiently as if he weighed nothing. Jesse crossed his arms tightly over his chest and watched, his face miserable.

Cheryl watched him. "You okay?"

Jesse looked at her in surprise, as if he'd almost forgotten she was there. "No," he admitted baldly. "Not really." He shrugged, trying to shake something off. "Sometimes the personal and professional don't mix so well." He caught the eye of one of the orderlies, nodded in the general direction of the elevator. "I'm coming too."

Cheryl watched them go, thinking that he looked as though he could use a nap himself. She glanced down and caught sight of her notebook lying open on the sofa, made a face. _Damn_. How could she have forgotten to take Steve's statement?

She picked it up with a measured sigh, stuffed it into her pocket.

"Yeah," she agreed tiredly. "I know what you mean."


	12. Midnight Vigil and a Talk

**Chapter Twelve: Midnight Vigil and a Talk**

As two burly orderlies wheeled his son's inert body into the room, Mark levered himself into a sitting position, ignoring the concomitant pains such abrupt movement caused in his battered body. His face bleached to a fair imitation of Steve's pallor as he noted the limp immobility that bespoke the forced unconsciousness of drugs rather than the natural relaxation of sleep.

Jesse followed the gurney into the room and proceeded to bustle round the bed as Steve was transferred, humming in a totally transparent effort to deflect Mark's concern.

"Jess?" Anxiety sharpened the query in Mark's voice to a point of acerbity which prodded uncomfortably at Jesse's conscience.

"He's fine," Jesse chirped brightly in response to the unspoken question but, behind the privacy of his own back, he winced both at the banality of his statement and the futility of his pretense.

"Jesse, what tests could you possibly have had run that needed anesthesia?" Mark exclaimed as Jesse's evasion only increased his worry.

"He's not been anesthetized," Jesse was floundering and he knew it but made one last-ditch attempt to keep his head above water. "He was just over-doing it, you know, so I had to give him a sedative."

Mark was obviously not placated by the distinction. "Over-doing what?" he demanded in exasperation.

Jesse went down for the third time and spluttered a confession. "Seems that Steve self-prescribed himself some exercise and wanted to go down to see how Cletus was doing, so he just upped and went for a walk, taking his IV pole with him. Then..." Jesse's babbling exposition faltered as he realised he couldn't possibly explain Steve's reluctance to return to his room. Jesse's recent actions, although motivated purely by concern for Steve, had caused him to feel enough guilt for his treachery without compounding the offense by further betrayal of his friend's painful confidences. "I guess he didn't have enough steam to get back by himself," he finished lamely. "So we..." A busily gesturing finger described through the air passage onto the gurney and off again as his words trailed off.

Despite Jesse's reticence on the issue, Mark seemed to understand everything that had been left unsaid. His eyes rested on his son, lying still and vulnerable on the bed, and Jesse could read the pained empathy and unfailing love contained in their blue depths. There was also something in that determined expression that Jesse found reassuring. Whatever demons were haunting Steve, Mark wouldn't rest until he'd plucked each one from the shadows of his son's mind and wrestled it into submission.

Jesse knew that Steve had never succeeded in hiding anything from his father's gimlet eye. Come to think of it, neither had anyone else. As if reading his mind, Mark switched his gaze to scrutinise his young colleague again.

"So, no tests?" he enquired with a glint of humour.

"Not one," Jesse admitted with a shameless grin; then, to clear up any medical apprehensions Mark might be harboring, he shifted into a more professional mode. "Physically," the word was stressed, "he's doing fine, all things considered. His temperature's up, but that's to be expected and I've given him something for that. What he really needs is rest, and the sedative will hopefully ensure that he sleeps through the night. His injuries, taken individually, are relatively superficial; it's only the cumulative effect that is worrying."

Mark knew that Jesse was right, but even still, the memory of tending to his son's bloodied and beaten body decimated any comfort he might have received from that notion. His imagination lingered uncomfortably on the acquisition of those injuries.

"How is Cletus doing?" he asked abruptly.

"He's been upgraded to serious. I think he'll be fine," Jesse observed in a neutral tone.

Mark nodded, relieved for Steve's sake, but unable to summon up much concern for the man himself.

"Anyway," Jesse continued brightly, unsure how Mark would take his next announcement, "I won't be in to check on you guys until tomorrow evening, but Dr. Patil will be taking care of you during the day."

Mark was surprised. It was unusual for Jesse to shift the burden of Steve's care to another while he was in the hospital. "I'm sure a rest is a good idea; you've been busy recently," he commented carefully.

"Well, actually I'm going to be moonlighting, except it's during the day so I suppose technically that would make it sunlighting," Jesse laughed a trifle nervously.

"What are you up to?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"I've got a part-time job. I filled out the paperwork last week and they're really short-handed so I start tomorrow," he finished in a rush.

"Doing what, Jess?" Mark wasn't reassured by his young friend's obvious uncertainty.

"I'm going to be a substitute teacher at South Gate Senior High School."

Mark's mouth dropped open slightly and his mind flashed through a variety of responses, from a suggestion as to why the schools were so desperate for substitutes to a remark on the impossibility of holding down two jobs at once, but the comment that actually left his lips was characteristic. "I wish I'd thought of that." An admiring smile curved his lips.

Relived, Jesse smiled back. "You probably would have if you hadn't been so focused on finding Steve these past few days. Anyway, I'm substituting for the Biology teacher."

Mark regarded his young colleague thoughtfully. Many people underestimated Jesse Travis; his small stature and friendly, eager manner were deceptive, but anyone who'd seen his competent and commanding work in the stressful environment of the emergency room would not make that mistake again. However, he didn't look much older than the kids he'd be teaching, and a class of high-school kids could be more brutal and pitiless than the most hardened criminal, so there was concern in his voice as he advised, "Be careful, Jess. Keep your ears open, but don't try anything by yourself."

From the eager anticipation in Jesse's face, Mark felt that the young doctor's personal education in a Minnesota high school must have been light-years from the typical experiences found in downtown Los Angeles. However, he said nothing more to dim Jesse's obvious enthusiasm.

He persuaded Jesse to remove his IV line, convincing him that he would sleep better unencumbered by wires, then the young doctor left with a final injunction to Mark to get some sleep, since his son would need him the next day.

Amanda joined Mark for supper, smuggling in a more attractive dessert than the ubiquitous jello, and she updated him on Cheryl's latest investigations. Although she didn't directly discuss Steve's recent excursion, she did drop enough hints to confirm Mark's earlier suspicions as to his son's frame of mind.

Mark had slept sufficiently during the day so as not to feel too tired, which proved fortuitous since he wasn't destined to sleep much that night. A slight noise woke him from a light doze and, for a moment, he lay still, thinking the sound had emanated from the corridor beyond their room, although he had been successfully filtering out the background clamor of the hospital. Fond thoughts of returning to sleep burnt away like the last wisps of morning fog in the full heat of the sun as the sound was repeated. It was merely a whisper: "Dad."

Mark craned his neck in an attempt to assess his son's condition, but there wasn't enough light to see anything more than the fact that Steve was still propped up on his side facing the wall, to spare his back the pressure of lying on his injuries. It looked like Steve was still asleep, but before Mark could lie down, another sound, indistinguishable in content but clearly anguished in nature, reached him, and Mark swung his legs around and was out of bed before even thinking about the decision to stand up. His movements proved too hasty, and he swayed dizzily, grabbing hold of a chair to avoid pitching forward on his face.

The combination of forced inactivity, drugs and even, he admitted to himself, his injuries, meant his legs seemed to buckle and waiver untrustworthily under him, and he used the furniture as support to wend his way to the other side of Steve's bed where he collapsed into the chair, so thoughtfully placed there, with a sigh of relief. Steve was indeed still asleep, but the rapid shiver of his eyes beneath closed eyelids and the small convulsive twitches of his tense body informed Mark he was in the throes of a nightmare.

"Sorry." The whisper forced itself out between dry lips as Steve's head moved restlessly against the pillow, and Mark responded instinctively to the pained uncertainty contained in that low voice, grasping Steve's hand, unsurprised by the dry warmth that indicated his son still harbored a fever.

"Sshhh, it's okay, you're safe now, go back to sleep." In the dark of the room, he was irresistibly carried on a backwash of memory to the long-distant times when his sleep had been interrupted by the advent of night-terrors, and he automatically reached out a hand and gently brushed back a few strands of hair, soothing his son as if he were still that child.

Somewhat to his surprise, Steve stilled under his touch, sinking back into a deeper sleep, and Mark's heart ached with tenderness at that instinctive trust. Aware that he'd not banished Steve's troubles, merely temporarily subdued them, Mark stood sentinel over his sleeping son's unconscious mind, repeated his reassurances as nightmares stirred repeatedly through the long hours. It was no burden. After the endless, painful days of uncertainty, fearing he might never see his son again, it was comforting to indulge all his senses in his son's continuing existence.

In the early morning, Steve's fever finally broke, and true healing sleep banished the nightmares. Mark, too weary to attempt the journey back to his own bed, pillowed his head on his arms and was almost immediately snoring.

That's where Steve found him when dawn crashed through the windows, waking him abruptly. His dread of facing his father vanished completely in his immediate concern for Mark's well-being. "Dad! Are you alright?"

Mark stirred, looking up and blinking blearily. "I'm fine," he insisted automatically. He rubbed his eyes in an effort to bring his son's face into focus. "Yes, well rested," he elaborated. He hoped nobody would call him on this bluff by asking him to relocate to his bed, since his body was too stiff to attempt anything more strenuous than sitting. He stretched, trying to make the motion look leisurely rather than necessary, but Steve wasn't fooled.

"Don't tell me you've been there all night!"

"I won't," Mark reassured him amiably, then before Steve could call him on this minor evasion, he launched a mild counterattack. "You're not the only one who can make unauthorised jaunts out of bed. Mine at least kept me in the room."

Something flickered warily at the back of Steve's eyes, and he glanced down, straightening his sheets. "You heard about that, did you?"

"Well it wasn't so much hearing about it as it was being the one to fill out a missing persons report on you. I was getting worried."

"I'm sorry, I just ..." Steve's voice trailed off, not wanting to venture into that territory, but Mark didn't seem to notice, continuing on conversationally.

"Jesse should know by now that he needs to tie you up with restraints if he wants you to stay put. Personally, I'm thinking of fitting you with some kind of locator so I know where you are at all times."

"There are occasions when that would have come in useful," Steve admitted ruefully, relaxing unconsciously under the gentle teasing.

Mark sobered abruptly. "Steve, I'm so sorry."

Steve's jaw dropped slightly, bewildered by the turn of the conversation. He felt like he'd just been pushed through the looking glass and now everything was backwards. He should be familiar with the sensation after all these years with his father, but it still disconcerted him. He had feared accusation and recriminations or at least sombre disappointment and instead, his father was apologising to _him_.

"What for?" he asked cautiously, untangling his IV line so he could try to sit up, feeling he could better face the contortions of his father's mind in an upright position.

"I should have found you earlier. All that you...they..."

"Dad." Seeing his father's very real distress pulled Steve out his self-absorption and helped put things back in perspective. The past few days must have been horrific for Mark with the burden of his son's life placed squarely on his shoulders. "Hey, it wasn't for lack of trying. I always knew you'd come through for me. And just in time too." His expression twisted at the memory of Mark pulling him off Cletus' prostrate body.

"No, not in time," Mark said sadly, touching his son's back gently as a reminder of the abuse Steve had suffered before he was found.

Wanting to remove the sorrow from his father's eyes, Steve reached down and squeezed his knee. "You did the best you could, Dad."

The words hung in the air between them, a reassurance and a promise of understanding but as Mark made no attempt to reply, merely regarding him seriously, Steve suddenly realised where his father's devious mind had led them and that the issue he'd wanted to avoid was somehow already exposed between them.

"It's not the same!" he protested weakly. "How did you . . . why aren't you . . . you have to be disappointed in me!" he burst out, suddenly arriving at the heart of the matter he'd have danced around for hours if Mark had tried a less subtle approach.

"I've never been disappointed in you. I've never been anything but proud of you, personally and professionally," Mark insisted. The sentiment of approbation always felt but so rarely voiced was clearly sincere and fell like balm on Steve's injured self-respect, although guilt still insisted he deny himself the comfort.

"You should be," he persisted. "I nearly killed a man, an unarmed man."

"Okay," Mark said agreeably. "Let's look at that. Was he always unarmed?"

"No, of course not."

"Was he unarmed at the beginning of that specific altercation?" Mark persisted.

"No," Steve admitted grudgingly.

"Was he surrendering?"

"No."

Steve's monosyllabic answers were beginning to make Mark feel like a prosecuting attorney facing a hostile witness, but he also felt his son's desperate need to believe and the strength of guilt holding him back. He wasn't trying to stonewall, it was just difficult for him to talk about.

Mark continued patiently, trying to build up a picture of events in his head. "Was the gun near enough for him to retrieve at any time?"

Steve's eyes were unfocused, reliving the painful, confused experience. "I managed to disarm him, the gun was on the ground. I thought it was over; I never intended to hurt him, but then he said, 'now we're even,' and threw a punch, and before I knew it..."

Mark shook his arm to recall him to the present, and compelled him with his penetrating blue eyes to really listen. "Cletus may not have been young, but he was strong and brutal with it. He may have been unarmed, but, except for a few fragments of makeshift buckshot, some of which you were also carrying in your leg, he was also uninjured. You were not. Do you need me to give you a list of your injuries? Because I can, in great detail."

Each of his son's wounds was etched indelibly in his mind's eye, and at the memory, he had to fight down outraged nausea for what his son had suffered. His throat tightened, forcing the words out in heated and increasing volume. Realising he'd just shouted at Steve, he held a hand out in wordless apology, but his son seemed to understand that the anger was not aimed at him.

"I'm going to be okay, Dad," he confirmed softly.

"No thanks to him," Mark jerked his head in the approximate direction of the ICU, regretting the abrupt movement as his vision swam and blurred.

"Two wrongs don't make a right. You taught me that." Steve's voice was regretful. "Dad, I appreciate what you're trying to say and I know you've got a point." After a good night's sleep and with his mind unimpaired by fever, Steve could indeed regard his actions from a more detached perspective and appreciate the fact that there were mitigating factors. Most of all, the knowledge of his father's undiminished respect had healed the most acute of his fears, and if he hadn't been so off balance he would have known that nothing could have diminished his father's love; it was the one fixed, unchanging point in his universe. However, with a clarity he had not formerly possessed, he still believed that the injuries he had inflicted on Cletus were inexcusable.

"The truth is, Dad, that whatever condition he was in or I was in, it was still excessive. I was totally out of control and nearly killed a man, and I don't see how that makes me any better than him."

His tongue was dry with the disgust of that assertion, the words sucking the moisture from his mouth, and he turned away from Mark and shakily poured some water into the plastic cup that stood on his nightstand.

Mark choked back the rebuttal that sprang to his lips and waited patiently for his son to face him again, but the bottom of Steve's water cup must have suddenly manifested an object of great interest. Finally, Mark reached over and grabbed Steve's hand, pulling his attention back forcefully.

"You're nothing like him. The very fact that we're having this conversation and you're having so much trouble reconciling your actions proves you're nothing like him. You're an honourable and caring man, forced into an untenable situation through no fault of your own. Don't even think of comparing yourself to that violent, abusive man."

Seeing the pain still lurking in his son's eyes, Mark sought for an argument cogent enough to remove the residual self-doubt. "Steve, I swear to you that if I'd had the opportunity up on that mountain, my actions would not have been much different from yours."

A disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of Steve's mouth. "You're the most gentle man I know, you'd never..."

"You're wrong," Mark cut in firmly. The mental image of Malcolm Trainer taunting him with threats to Steve's life flashed into his mind. His reaction then had been unequivocal, he'd gone for the man's throat. "Not only have I had similar impulses, I've also tried to carry them through. The difference between us," his mouth tipped wryly, "is that I don't have the physical capability to carry it through. Anyone can be pushed beyond their limits. I'm telling you that each of your friends who saw you up there felt the same impulse when we realised how he'd treated you."

"Cheryl said the same thing," Steve murmured uncertainly. He leaned back against the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to integrate this new concept into the confusion of his thoughts.

He could feel Mark gripping his hand tightly, his voice low and almost hypnotic. "You need to believe me, Steve. Don't let him win; you've not been diminished by this. You're still the same good man you've always been. You have to accept that and let it go."

Steve was trying, but his mind threw up one more roadblock. He opened his eyes, staring into his father's compassionate gaze. "If I hadn't hurt him so badly he needed to be airlifted off, we wouldn't have been stuck there and you wouldn't have got hurt."

"Steve!" his father scolded him in affectionate exasperation. "You cannot accept responsibility for _my _stupidity. You have to understand. I wasn't thinking straight either. I was so angry and I didn't have the option of thumping Cletus." He hung on to Steve's hand as his son flinched in shock, needing him to understand. "I needed an outlet for my anger too."

Mark's common sense was steadily assuaging his feelings of shame, and Steve could feel the tension beginning to leach out of his own muscles, but this relaxation also forced out his last concern. He blinked, closed his eyes, then looked up resolutely. "What if I do it again?"

To his relief, Mark didn't merely dismiss his concern. "God forbid these circumstances should ever be repeated."

"But it's not the first time I've lost control," Steve confessed, his forehead creased in apprehension at sharing that revelation

"What happened?"

"When we arrested Rosser, I...well, they had to pull me off him."

Mark merely looked interested. "You never told me," was his only comment.

"I suppose I never really felt that guilty over it," Steve admitted. "I mean, he tried to kill you." Now the episode took on more worrying overtones.

Mark had to suppress a smile at Steve's reasoning. Clearly, being severely beaten himself was not sufficient motivation for retaliation, but an attack on his father was.

"Well, let's hope those circumstances never repeat themselves either," he offered lightly.

The highly incredulous look on Steve's face dragged a smile out of Mark as he recognised the dubious nature of that wish, but he persevered doggedly. "Excessive force is not in your nature. So, in your long career there have been a couple of times when exceptional circumstances have forced uncharacteristic actions. That doesn't make you a bad cop or a bad person. I suppose the bottom line is that I trust you and know you will always make the right decisions."

Steve's eyes fastened on his father and held his so long that, if it had been anyone else, Mark might have felt uncomfortable. As it was, he held his son's gaze steadily and convincingly until it relaxed in surrender.

"You win, Dad. Maybe it wasn't totally unforgivable. Just give me some time to come to terms with things. There is, however, one thing that I really need to do."

Mark looked at him expectantly.

"I want to bail Donald out." Somewhat to his surprise, Mark just nodded, but Steve still felt the need to justify himself. "I guess I need to talk to him, and he deserves to be nearby while his father's a patient."

It was only a partial explanation, but he felt unable to fully articulate his reasons. He knew it would be hell for him to be held in jail while Mark was recovering from serious injuries and wanted no part of inflicting that on another person. Although Donald may have precipitated the chain of events, he'd also helped save Steve's life, and being locked up was scant reward.

"I'll pay his bail," Mark offered, and the last of Steve's anxiety dissipated at the understanding he heard in his father's voice.

Mark stretched, trying to unknot muscles that had been wound way too tight with the tension of the conversation, and Steve's eyes tracked over his father's pale face, noting the black circles of weariness smudged under the blue eyes, the pain lines noticeable at the side of his mouth.

"You're not looking too good. Why don't you go and lie down," he suggested solicitously.

Mark eyed his bed with longing, but it seemed as inaccessible as a far-off galaxy. Collapsing en route would merely cause a resurgence of Steve's guilt which he had worked so hard to dispel.

"Actually, I'm quite comfortable here," he replied brightly.

Steve regarded him suspiciously. "You think that chair's more comfortable than a bed?"

"Well, the air-conditioning is blowing too hard on my bed; it's warmer over here," Mark improvised.

"Even so, I bet Jesse will have a fit if he comes in to find you sitting there."

"Oh, talking about Jesse," Mark seized upon the distraction with fervour. "He's not coming in this morning, and you'll never guess why."

Steve wasn't so easily sidetracked. "Is there any reason why you can't tell me while you're lying down in bed?"

Mark cast around frantically for another plausible excuse or at least a diverting one. "My leg's gone to sleep," he explained feebly. Seeing that Steve was unimpressed, he continued, waving at his bare feet, "and the floor's cold."

From the quizzical stare he was receiving from his son, he realised he was busted, so he opted for distraction. "The view is better from here. Besides, my bed was too high, I was getting vertigo over there"

Steve's eyebrow was crawling up his forehead, but Mark spotted the reluctant curl of his lips and continued, encouraged. "The TV remote doesn't work over there."

"And we know that 6am is just a great time for TV viewing," Steve agreed sardonically.

"The bathroom's closer, and I think I saw a spider near my bed," Mark continued defiantly.

"I'll call animal control."

"And I'm a decrepit invalid who should never have left his bed in the first place," Mark muttered.

"Ah hah." Steve pounced on that one.

Mark regarded him with disfavour. "You were supposed to miss that in the swirl of misinformation." He continued more solemnly. "Basically I'm fine, I've just stiffened up a bit and don't want to make a fool of myself by kissing the floor."

"Good thing you got clonked on the head," Steve said affectionately. "You might've gotten hurt otherwise."

Steve summoned a nurse who helped Mark to the bathroom then back to his bed. Breakfast arrived shortly afterwards, and the two ate in companionable silence. They were chatting amiably about inconsequentials unrelated to recent events when Cheryl arrived. She hovered just outside the doorway, unobtrusively observing the amazing transformation in her partner, unable to detect the haunted man of the day before in the quietly smiling patient on the bed. She had no difficulty identifying the architect of this miracle, but resisted the urge to say 'I told you so' as Mark waved her into the room.

"Hey, partner," she greeted Steve cheerfully. "Looks like you got more sleep than I did, thank you very much."

Steve looked puzzled at the genial accusation in her voice, his memory of their previous conversation a distant and drug-hazed blur.

"I spent a large portion of the night researching that problem you insisted I work on." She waved a file in the air. "Mary-Jane Baxter, official cause of death: heroin overdose. Body was more or less unrecognisable since it had been submerged in the bay for several days before discovery. Identified by Cletus Baxter, partially through a misshapen foot."

"Why did Cletus make the identification not Donald?" Mark inquired.

"No idea; I suppose he was out of town. The file doesn't say."

Mark nodded thoughtfully, but made no further comment.

Steve smiled his gratitude. "Thanks, Cheryl. I appreciate your hard work. There's just one more thing you could do for me."

Cheryl looked resigned. "What is it? It's not like I have anything better to do than run errands for you."

Steve ignored her cheerful sarcasm. "We want to bail Donald out. Can you put that into motion for us?"

She threw her hands in the air. "Well, why not. I arrested the guy, why not bail him out too -- one-stop shopping Cheryl Banks! Are you sure you want to do that?"

"He's no flight risk," Mark asserted confidently. "His father's here in hospital, his son's in jail. He's not going anywhere and he could be helpful in the investigation."

Cheryl looked skeptical but accepted his answer. She took a deep breath, hating to be the one to reintroduce the spectre of violence back into the room. "Before I go, I'm afraid I have to take your statement, partner."

Apart from one involuntary glance across at his father, Steve didn't react overtly. However, the skin seemed to tighten over the bones of his face, giving him a gaunt, bleached appearance as he nodded slowly.

"I could take a little trip down to the doctor's lounge," Mark offered gently.

"Thanks, Dad, but I'd actually like you to be here if you don't mind. I only want to have to do this once, and you should know what happened."

As Steve commenced his report in colourless, measured tones, Mark could feel rage tightening his chest, making it difficult to breathe. However, he sat motionless, suppressing his own anger, knowing an outburst on his part would not help his son. He wished he was still sitting next to Steve, in a position to offer comfort. Cheryl's face also looked pale, but she retained her composure behind a mask of professionalism. It was going to be a long ordeal for all of them.

_Sloans' Deck_

Jesse hitched his backpack further up his shoulder, ignoring the doubtful look the secretary cast his way which seemed to suggest she thought he was a student masquerading as a teacher. He listened to her instructions.

"This is your ID badge, keep it on at all times. Here are the lesson plans Mrs. Bertolli left for you. Go down the corridor, turn right, go up the stairs, turn right again, down the hall, and it's at the end on your left."

Jesse smiled at her brightly and thanked her, trying to keep the abundance of directions straight in his head, then he squeezed out of the door into the crowded hallway where the mass of shouting students, far too many of them taller than he was, pushed and jostled to their next stop. Jesse flowed with the tide, then fought his way across to approach the stairs. When he reached his destination, adrenaline was already surging through his system, and he pushed open the lab door with a flourish to face the students inside.


	13. Unexpected Outcomes

**Chapter Thirteen: Unexpected Outcomes**

**I**

**MAY**

**PLAY**

**MY**

**AUNT'S**

**TRUMPET,**

**CHARLEY.**

Prompted by frequent student complaints, Jesse had worked hard over the past week to change his doctor's scrawl into a very legible block print. He was unusually proud that he had, in such a short time, managed to learn to write clearly enough so that his kids could actually copy the notes he put on the board. Now he stood off to the side, grinning as his students muttered confusedly to one another and obediently copied the words into a chart in their notebooks, using a different colored pencil for each word. He didn't think anyone who had seen him on his first day teaching would have expected such an orderly, compliant class today.

_As soon as he opened the door to his classroom, Jesse knew he was in over his head. A child at a computer in the back of the room was looking at "Hot Mexican Babes" on the internet, and Jesse had to wonder how he had gotten around the school's security program. In one corner at the back of the room, a couple was making out, doing everything two people could do to each other with their clothes on, and in the other corner, six desks had been pushed together and a group of boys were playing poker. Several small knots of children were copying homework assignments, looking at teen magazines, or just gossiping. One or two were trying to sleep despite the chaos, and one girl was apparently eating her breakfast from a McDonald's bag._

_When Jesse walked up to the front of the room, the bulky P.E. teacher, who had been assigned monitor the class until a substitute was located, closed her Sports Illustrated magazine, looked at him like he was a cockroach, and said, "Son, I'm sorry, you need to go back to the guidance office and tell them I can't take on another student. They should put you somewhere else."_

_Narrowing his eyes, Jesse replied, "I am not a new student. I'm Dr. Travis, Mrs. Bertolli's substitute."_

_The very manly woman's eyes went wide, and she looked Jesse up and down. She didn't even try to stop the snort of laughter that escaped when her eyes rested on the young man's face again._

_"Now, if you aren't going to do anything useful, like call the class to order, could you at least get out of my room?" Jesse said in a tone that clearly showed his rising temper._

_"Oh, of course, where are my manners?" Standing up, she said, "Class, this is Dr. Travis, your new teacher. I expect you to show him the same respect you have given me." _

_Half the class glanced up disinterestedly, looked him over for about two seconds, and went back to what they were doing. The other half ignored them completely._

_ Picking up her magazine and a thermos, the P.E. teacher muttered, "Good luck, kid," and was gone._

_And things went down hill from there._

"Why are we taking these notes in Technicolor, Dr. Travis?" Shatanya Morgan asked.

"I'm hoping it will help you remember each set of information. The color should cue your mind to group together the facts you're about to learn."

Shatanya nodded her understanding, and then said, "What if you're colorblind?"

"Then you're SOL!" Larry Barton called out.

"Larry," Dr. Travis said in a warning tone.

"Sorry," Larry apologized.

He might be new on the job, but Jesse recognized a teachable moment when he saw one. Answering his kids' questions with real explanations, even if it meant getting off on a tangent, helped keep their interest, and that helped keep his lessons on track. So, as the kids continued copying, Jesse gave a crash course on colorblindness.

"Actually, Shatanya, very few people are colorblind, and ninety-nine percent of those who are don't see the whole world in shades of gray. They usually only have trouble distinguishing between two colors, red and green, although there are a few who have trouble with blue and yellow."

"I see," Shatanya nodded, and she went back to work.

_Jesse had gotten off to a rocky start as the biology substitute, but that had only left him more determined than ever to take charge and teach his classes well. Mrs. Bertolli was on six weeks of maternity leave, and word in the teachers' lounge was that she planned to use her accumulated sick days from the past few years to extend her time off with the new baby right up to the end of school. Still, she had been with her students long enough to make a lasting impression, and the four classes of twenty-five to thirty-five children each had not appreciated the young stranger who had come in trying to take over, especially after a week with a P.E. teacher who had let them do what they wanted. The one study hall he monitored was, to his surprise, even worse, with forty-five kids competing for the forty-one chairs in the overcrowded room. His planning period had been a frantic rush to make copies and grade papers, and his only break had been the Advanced Placement class of twenty students, most of whom already had plans to enter scientific careers, and all of whom had earned early acceptance to college._

_By the end of the first day, he found himself standing ankle deep in balled up paper. A small spitball war that had started in first period after the gym teacher left had escalated during each class until, by the seventh and final hour of the day, kids were blatantly sailing paper airplanes, rubber bands, and erasers across the room right before his eyes with no thought of any reprisals. After helping the custodian clean up the mess, Jesse headed for the office to seek the counsel of the assistant principal, Robert Edwards, who, so he was told, was the chief disciplinarian at Southgate High. Fortunately, he found a sympathetic ear, and within an hour, the two of them had developed a plan to help him take control._

"Hey, I only have six colors," a voice from the back called out. "Can somebody lend me another?"

"Sure, what color do you need?"

"Ummm . . . green."

"Here you go."

"Thanks."

The two students immediately went back to work drawing their color-coded charts. Jesse didn't always require his children to raise their hands, and he even let them chat a little while they took notes or did assignments, as long as they kept working and didn't get too loud. Only if he was lecturing or when they were having a class discussion did they have to wait for permission to speak. Of course, it had taken a lot of work to get to that point, and he was still amazed at how quickly it had happened.

_To the students' surprise, they arrived to a locked classroom the day after Dr. Travis arrived, and they waited in the hall until the tardy bell rang. When they tried to leave, teachers at either end of the hall turned them back and told them to wait for their teacher. After a few minutes, the door opened and the young substitute stepped out. _

_"Please line up against the wall," he said in a quiet voice. _

_Not knowing what else to do, the students complied. _

_"When I call your name, step forward. If I mispronounce it, or if you have a nickname that you prefer, let me know. Then you may go into the room, find your new seat, and get to work. When you enter, you will notice that the room is clean. There is no paper on the floor or writing on the desks. I expect it to be that way when you leave."_

_One by one, the students stepped forward, were marked present, and entered the classroom, the last of them followed by their new teacher. Their seats had been changed so that they were in alphabetical order, making it easier for Dr. Travis to learn their names. There was a work packet on each desk, to be completed by the end of the period, and a stack of discipline referral forms on the corner of the substitute teacher's table at the front of the room. The first page of the work packet detailed Dr. Travis' rules and consequences. The students were expected to read and sign the page to indicate that they knew what was expected of them. After a brief discussion, all of them complied._

_The class had been working in silence for two minutes when a handsome, cocky youth named Alec Carver decided to strike up a conversation with the pretty girl next to him._

_"Alec, this is your warning," Dr. Travis told him before the girl had a chance to reply. "You need to be quiet and get to work."_

_With a smirk, Alec said mockingly, "Yes, sir," and opened his book._

_The young teacher jotted a note down on one of the discipline forms, and then a student raised her hand. He went to the back of the room to help her, and when he had finished, he looked up to see Alec talking with one of the guys who sat in front of him._

_"Alec, this is your second warning, you have an assignment, please concentrate on that."_

_Alec rolled his eyes and said in a sing-song voice, "Yes, Dr. Travis."_

_Squashing his frustration, Jesse moved to the front of the room and made another note on Alec's discipline form. He had hardly finished when Alec had gone back to flirting with the girl behind him._

_"I'm sorry, Alec, but if you can't do as you are asked, you'll have to leave." Jesse made another note on the form and said, "Gather your things and go to Mr. Edwards' office. You can work there until the end of the period."_

_"I ain't goin' nowhere!" the young man said belligerently, and he turned in his seat to face the front of the room and braced himself in his desk. His rebellious attitude was in stark contrast to his teacher's calm and patient correction, and the rest of the children waited to see if Dr. Travis would respond in kind._

_Jesse moved across the front of the room, aware that all eyes were on him now. Pressing the call button on the wall, he waited for someone to respond._

_"Yes?" came the elderly secretary's crackly voice._

_"Ms. McGair," Jesse spoke as calmly as a man placing an order at a fast-food drive through, confident that it would be delivered quickly. "I've just asked Alec Carver to report to Mr. Edwards' office, but he doesn't want to go. If he doesn't show up in three minutes could you send an escort for him?" _

_Jesse tried to hide a smile as he heard a collective gasp from the class and saw twenty-eight heads bow down to their work. From his conversation with Mr. Edwards, he knew that requesting an escort would bring Mike Callahan, the School Resource Officer, a full-time, fully trained and armed cop who had been assigned to the school under the Safe and Drug-free Schools Act of 1994, to their classroom. More importantly, the kids knew the same thing from experience._

_Jesse had been concerned that calling for a police escort was a bit over the top, but Mr. Edwards had assured him that, given the circumstances of the previous day, it was appropriate and necessary to make the point that he was the one in charge and that he had the full support of the administration. Though he still wasn't sure about what he was doing, he had to admit it had the desired effect. Alec stood and stared at him for a moment, and then he gathered his things, took the discipline form Dr. Travis was holding out, and headed for the door._

_"I'll see you back here at 3:20," Dr. Travis said as the now not-so-cocky young man put his hand on the doorknob._

_"I have football practice after school," Alec said, not challenging him, but informing him that he already had plans._

_"Not anymore," Dr. Travis replied. "You should have read the discipline agreement you just signed." Picking up the paper, the young teacher read aloud, "Any student removed from the classroom for discipline reasons may, at the teacher's discretion, be required to report after school to make up the instructional time missed." Looking at his watch, he did some quick mental math and said, "I owe you thirty-seven minutes of teaching, and you deserve the best education I can give you, so I am gonna make sure you get that opportunity, but I have to do the same for your classmates, and I can't do that when you won't stop talking. So, I will teach them now, and you will have to get the lesson after school."_

_"But if I'm late, Coach will make me run laps!" Alec protested, shocked that this slight little man would dare interfere with the sacred ritual of football practice._

_"Well, then, I guess while you are running you will have plenty of time to consider what you should have been doing in here yesterday and today," Dr. Travis said pleasantly. "Now you better get going before Officer Callahan shows up."_

_Too stunned to offer a response, the boy had simply opened the door and left the room._

Jesse grinned as Alec looked up from his paper and frowned. He had unwittingly played hardball with the varsity football team's starting quarterback and won. Word had spread quickly, and there had been no more problems that day. When Alec had come to see him after school, Jesse had been his usual charming self, and, without his peers around to impress, Alec had warmed up to the sincere young teacher and the two of them had reached an understanding. Of course, kids being kids, there had been other difficulties throughout the past two weeks, but Jesse had gained his students' respect after his face-off with Alec Carver, and he could now quell most disturbances with a shake of the head or a warning look.

"Dr. Travis, what does this have to do with biology?" Alec asked.

"More than you might imagine," Jesse replied.

"I don't see it," the student replied.

"Try this one," Jesse suggested. "King Phillip Came Over For Great Spaghetti."

"That's easy: Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species. Mrs. Bertolli taught us that," Sandy Green said.

"Good," Jesse nodded his approval. "How about this one? How you feel and where you are . . ."

" . . . is when you use the verb _estar!_" About half the class was able to finish the rhyme, and Jesse knew instantly which of his students had taken Spanish. In the back of his mind, he realized with surprise that none of the Latino students knew it, and then he laughed at himself. Of course, they wouldn't. They didn't need to study Spanish as a foreign language because they grew up with parents and grandparents who spoke it fluently.

"Every good boy deserves fudge!" Pedro Velasquez offered from the back of the room.

"The lines on the treble clef," Jesse responded. "You get the picture."

"Ohhhhh, memory tricks," Irene Rodriguez said.

"But what does this one mean?" Alec asked.

Grinning, Jesse said, "Look at the reading from last night and see if you can figure it out for yourself."

Books opened and pages turned, and after a minute, Irene said, "Ohhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Hey! I get it!" Alec called out.

"What?" someone asked from the back.

"It's the cell cycle," Alec said.

"Interphase is followed by mitosis, which includes prophase, metaphase, anaphase, and telophase, and then . . . " Sandy began.

"The cell splits in two during cytokinesis!" Larry Barton interrupted.

"And each word of the sentence starts with the same letter as one of the steps," Alec said. "Cool! Where'd you learn that one?"

Unable to avoid blushing slightly, Jesse said, "I made it up back in high school, but they actually taught it a little differently then, and the sentence was just, 'I play my aunt's trumpet.' Since then, our understanding of the cell cycle has changed, so I had to change the sentence for you."

For the next thirty five minutes, Dr. Travis led his kids through filling out their notes on the cell cycle and advised them to study because in the coming week there were going to be more discussions and they would need to understand what happened during each stage in order to comprehend the rest of the class. After the lecture, he assigned homework to the usual chorus of groans and complaints, and with two minutes left until the bell, he asked the students to straighten up their desks and allowed them to pack up.

As the bell rang, he dismissed the students saying, "We had a good class today, people. Thank you, and have a great day. You may go."

Jesse had gotten used to using the time between classes to review his notes, so he wasn't aware that one of his students had not left until Sandy Green came to his desk.

"Dr. Travis, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure thing, Sandy, that's what I'm here for," he said smiling.

"Remember last week when we were talking about Nature and Nurture how you said some things just are the way they are and other things are learned?"

"Yeah, why?"

"How can you tell the difference?"

"Well, with some things like physical characteristics or color-blindness, for example, it's usually obviously Nature, but with behavior, it's harder to tell. Some medical conditions, like obesity, addiction, high blood pressure, and other problems, could be the physical result of learned behavior passed down in a family, which would be Nurture even though it looks like Nature because most of the family has the same medical history," he explained.

"I see. What about say, having a temper? Which is that?"

Jesse really wanted to tell the girl that, with some help, her boyfriend could change if he wanted to, but Sandy had no idea he knew of her connection to Tucker, and he couldn't risk blowing his cover if he was to find out who Rico Alonso's killer really was.

"Well," Jesse gave his answer some thought. "Even if a person is genetically predisposed to violence, if he is capable of average school work, he can almost always learn to control his temper if he wants to, just like people suffering from obesity and high blood pressure can learn to exercise and eat differently to improve their health even if they are genetically predisposed to those diseases. It isn't always easy, but it is possible. About the only way he couldn't would be if there were some kind of brain injury involved."

Sandy nodded, "What about the other way around? Can someone who is really nice just go off and beat someone else up real bad?"

Jesse thought back to the conversation he'd had with Steve, Cheryl, and Amanda not so long ago outside of Cletus' hospital room. "Anyone can become violent in the right circumstances," he said. "If a person is scared or threatened or angry enough, yeah, they could beat the living daylights out of someone."

The two-minute warning bell rang and Sandy scooted off, calling back, "Thanks, Dr. Travis. I'll see you tomorrow."

_Sloans' Deck_

A groan that seemed to come from deep inside the wiry frame filled the room, and the one who was watching moved closer. Gummy eyelids slitted open, and icy blue eyes peered out.

"Hey, Pa," a soft voice said gently.

A barely acknowledging grunt came from the figure on the bed, and the eyes slid closed. Donald Baxter grinned up at the guard who had come into the room when he'd pressed the call button to signal the nurse that his father was beginning to stir.

"He always was hard to wake up," Donald said, and he settled back in his chair to watch his father sleep some more. "It's all right, Pa. I'll still be here when you're ready to talk to me."

"What makes ya think I'll wanna see your ugly face when I wake up?" Cletus asked with his eyes still closed.

"Nobody wants to be alone in the hospital."

"Don' be . . . so shoor . . . "

Donnie just grinned and shook his head, taking his Pa's cantankerous comments as a good sign that he was almost out of the woods.

The forms required to let him see his father had taken a week to process, but as soon as the doctor had bailed him out, Donald had gone first to see his son, and then to the hospital to keep a vigil outside of Cletus' room. When the elder Baxter's condition had been upgraded to serious and he had been removed from intensive care, Donald had started dividing his time more evenly between the county jail and the hospital. Day after day, he went from visiting with his son and trying to keep the boy's spirits up to waiting anxiously outside his father's room, hoping today would be the day he was allowed in to see him.

When he finally got word that the paperwork had been pushed through, he made a quick call from the nurse's station, and with Tucker's reluctant blessing, settled down inside the room to wait for his Pa to wake up.

_Sloans' Deck_

As his patient sat stubbornly silent in his seat, Bennett Taylor studied him with a knowing eye. The tense shoulders, clenched fists and jaw, and the rigid posture in the cushioned easy chair were all signs of a man about to snap like a tightly coiled spring. It wasn't the first time he had seen such anger and hatred, and he knew he had to help his patient find some way to release it before it became a way of life for him, or he would never be fit for duty again. Fortunately, his experience had given him plenty of practice in dealing with patients like the man who sat before him now.

Bennett Taylor had joined the U.S. Army Reserve Officer Training Corps in college and gotten his medical degree with money from the G.I. Bill. The day after receiving his diploma in 1991, he had left for his first post, working with stressed-out, homesick soldiers in the Persian Gulf. He'd been close enough to the action to have actually needed his helmet and sidearm a time or two, but had made it out with nothing more than some bruises and scratches, which was more than he could say for some of the men he worked with. As the war ended, he was shipped home again, and found himself dealing with some of the same soldiers as they faced the stress of becoming fathers and family men again.

After completing his service requirement, he had left the military and began looking for a position in private practice. Having dealt with soldiers who had faced real terror and survived to live with real emotional problems, he felt that listening to the rich and famous lament about all the horrible things their parents had done wrong would leave _him_ in need of counseling. At six feet, three inches tall and two hundred pounds, he thought he was a bit too imposing to work with traumatized children. Never having been married, he didn't think he was a good candidate for marriage counseling, and he wanted something more challenging than lonely housewives and businessmen who really just needed someone to talk to. So, he had applied to the LAPD.

Bennett's combat experience, limited though it was, had stood him in good stead with the cops he dealt with. He might never have been shot, but he had been forced to shoot, and he knew what it was like to live with a target on his back. He didn't often speak about his own experiences, but his patients could tell he understood something of theirs, and they respected him for it.

Of course, that wasn't always enough to make them cooperate.

"Look, Steve, we both know why we are here," Bennett said with a sigh when it was apparent that his patient wasn't willing to speak. "Officially, I am supposed protect the public by making sure you haven't been so traumatized that you are going to shoot up a shopping mall full of teenagers and old people because some kid makes a smart remark about your shoes after he mixes up your order at the food court and gives you French fries instead of onion rings. Unofficially, I am supposed to protect the Chief of Police, because he's the one the press is going to go after if you do open fire in that shopping mall. Personally, I am going to cover my own behind because I am the one the Chief is gonna fire if the press come after him when you shoot up that mall."

"Gee, and I thought we were here because you cared about me," Steve said sarcastically.

"That goes without saying, Steve, and I think you know it," the doctor replied. "Just like your job, mine is too difficult and demanding for someone who doesn't really care. So, why don't you tell me about what happened with Cletus Baxter?"

Steve sighed. "I was leaving for work and someone hit me in the head. The next thing I . . . "

"Tell me something that isn't in the police reports, Steve."

"Like what?"

Bennett watched as the hands clenched and unclenched, and he decided to push some buttons to get things rolling.

"Tell me what it felt like to beat the hell out of a defenseless old man."

"He wasn't defenseless!" Steve snapped. "He was just unarmed, and I had to defend myself."

"From a man old enough to be your father? Why didn't you just walk away?"

"I couldn't!" Steve protested. "He wanted to fight. He asked for it."

"Asked for it? So, he roughed you up a little. You broke four of his ribs, knocked out several teeth, ruptured his spleen, punctured his lung, and gave him a concussion, all _after _he was wounded with his own shotgun," Bennett challenged. "How can you say he _asked_ for it?"

"I took part of that blast, too," Steve replied hotly. "He kept me chained to the wall, and treated me like a dog! And he hit me with the butt of his shotgun and beat me with the buckle end of his belt."

Suddenly overwhelmed with anger and hatred he stood and turned his back on Bennett. Pulling his t-shirt up to show the angry red welts on his still-healing back, he demanded, "Look at what he did to me! Look at it and tell me I didn't have the right to want to kill him where he stood!"

Steve wasn't sure what kind of reaction he expected, but dead silence certainly wasn't it. He stood there, his scarred and battered back exposed, for what seemed like forever, breathing hard and waiting for Bennett to respond. Finally, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Tuck your shirt in and have a seat, Steve," Bennett quietly commanded. "I'm gonna get you a glass of water and then we can talk some more."

As Steve complied, he heard the clink of ice and the gurgle of water sloshing into a glass from the corner of the room where Bennett kept a small refrigerator. After sitting down again, Steve accepted his drink with a quiet, 'Thank you,' and turned to face his counselor when Bennett took the seat beside him instead of going around the desk to sit behind it again. As the silence grew, Steve felt the need to fill it.

"You know, I thought I'd made my peace with what happened . . . "

"You mean with what you did to Cletus Baxter."

Steve took a sip of his water and then put it on the small table between the two chairs. He nodded reluctantly, for once in his life feeling uncomfortable with accepting responsibility for his actions, but realizing, 'he made me do it' was a childish excuse. "Yeah, with what I did, but now I'm not so sure. I didn't enjoy it or anything, I just wanted to stay alive, and somehow, I guess I got carried away. So, was it really such an awful thing? Was it really wrong?"

Bennett shrugged. "I don't know, and it's not my job to forgive you. If you want absolution, talk to a priest. I'm just here to make sure you're fit for duty, and from what I have seen, you're not ready yet."

Steve dipped his head. Everything about him signaled defeat. Bennett reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Whether you need to be forgiven for what you did is a matter between you and God, Steve, but I can tell you that your reaction was well within the parameters of what we would call normal for the situation. You were pushed too far, and you snapped, end of story, and I know you and your dad have talked about that. I am more interested in how you are feeling right now."

"I hate him," Steve said with quiet intensity, "I'm glad I didn't kill him, but I hate him and I wish he was dead."

Bennett knew he was as close as he had ever been to finding the problem that had to be resolved before this cop was ready for the streets. Before his eyes, he saw his patient's whole demeanor change. The fists were clenched again, the left one pounding softly against the arm of the chair, the shoulders were tense, and the posture was as rigid as ever. He had to act now, had to keep Steve talking until the real issue was brought to light.

"Why do you hate him?" Bennett asked softly.

"Because of what he did to me."

"The way he abused you, you mean?"

Steve shook his head. "I've been beat up before. I got over it."

"What then, what makes you hate him?"

"He turned me into a monster," Steve explained as he stared intently at the floor. "I would have beat him to death with my bare hands if my dad hadn't pulled me off him, and don't care if that was normal for the situation, it wasn't normal for me. I hate him for making me do that. I hate him for holding that kind of power over me, and I wish he was dead."

Bennett reached out and put his hand over Steve's left fist, subtly forcing him to stop pounding on the chair.

"Steve, I think you have made your peace with what you did. I think you understand what happened to you, and I think you know you aren't likely to do it again, but I can't let you go back to active duty yet. You still need to make peace with Cletus Baxter."

When Steve opened his mouth to protest, Bennett held up a hand to hush him.

"I know expecting you to forgive him is too much to ask, and frankly, I see no need to even consider it, but you do need to stop hating him, because until you do, he will always have power over you."

Steve shot him a look that told him he had struck right to the heart of the matter. "I don't know how I can," he said. "After what he did to me . . . "

"I know it will be hard, but you have to do it," Bennett said. "Hatred, the kind of burning hatred you feel for Cletus Baxter, is an all-consuming thing. It takes too much energy to sustain it. I'm concerned that if you don't let it go, you'll burn yourself out. One day, you just won't be able to face going into work, so you'll call off sick. Then you'll have a hard time getting out of bed, and wind up sleeping half the day away. Before you know it, you'll be popping Xanax like breath mints and taking early retirement on medical grounds. You've got to let it go. You'll never be free of him until you do."

"But how can I do that?" Steve asked, truly bewildered.

Bennett stood up and went around behind his desk. "Have some fun, get some exercise, hang out with your friends and family, focus your energy on the people you love, and with any luck, you'll soon realize that hating Cletus Baxter isn't worth the effort."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Let's be optimistic and assume it will. If, after a few weeks, it doesn't, then we will consider Plan B." Bennett mentally crossed his fingers, hoping his suggestion would work, because, if were honest with himself, he really didn't have a Plan B.

_Sloans' Deck_

" . . . then I put the body back in the cooler, clean the autopsy table with high-pressure scalding water, and file my report," Amanda finished. It was the beginning of Jesse's third week of substitute teaching, and he had asked her to come in as a guest speaker. Officially, she was there to tell the kids about a career that involved biology and get them excited about the frog dissection unit they were about to do. In reality, she was trying shake something loose about the Rico Alonso murder.

"But you cut up dead bodies," a girl in the back complained, her disgust clear in the tone of her voice.

"I agree it's not a career for the squeamish," Amanda replied. "But for me, it is great. I get to be a doctor, which is something I always wanted, at least from the time I found out I was too big to be a professional ballerina, but I am never called out for emergencies on my sons' birthdays or while they are unwrapping their Christmas presents. And best of all, I don't have to deal with the emotionally painful experience of having patients die, though I have had one come back to life, but that's another story."

The kids perked up at her veiled reference to Gregory Othon, but she just kept talking. "As a county medical examiner, I get to help the families of murder victims get final justice, and sometimes, I find information that will actually clear the innocent. Just a few weeks ago, for example, we had a guy who was apparently killed by someone he had repeatedly tormented and teased. It seemed like an open-and-shut case. The suspect was found over the body holding the murder weapon, covered in the victim's blood. He'd even sent the victim threatening letters."

Amanda's explanation of the case had been carefully rehearsed with Cheryl to be sure she didn't release too much information or get too specific and tip their hand, or, worse yet, compromise the police investigation. It was rather inconvenient that she had been at the school before, but so far, the kids didn't seem to have recognized her. It was amazing how much scrubs and a lab coat could change one's appearance, and how little notice the children seemed to take of the adults around them. Steve hadn't been told of their plans, though, because he was still struggling with lingering issues from his captivity.

"Hey, that sounds like something that happened here a few weeks ago," Alec Carver interrupted. "I think Tucker went a little over the top, but the truth is Rico had it coming."

"Yeah," someone agreed from the back, "Tuck wasn't the only one who wanted to off him. Rico being gone has made life easier for a lot of us."

"No it hasn't, it just means all of his buddies are pushing us around now instead of watching him do it. Things are worse, because as mean as he was, Rico could only be in one place at a time. Besides, nothing justifies killing."

"Oh, yeah? What if he was beating you up at the time?"

Jesse frowned. The discussion was quickly getting away from Amanda. "Ok, folks," he broke in loudly. "Justifiable homicide is something you can discuss in Government, Economics, and Political Systems or Criminal Justice. Dr. Bentley is here to talk about pathology and forensic medicine." Turning to Amanda, he asked, "So what did you find in this case?"

"Well, when I reviewed the autopsy report, I found that injuries indicated a smaller, weaker killer, probably female."

"You mean you can . . . you can tell if it was a man or a woman?" Sandy Green asked in surprise.

"Not to a one hundred percent certainty," Amanda admitted, "but from the angle of the wounds, I can estimate the height of an attacker, and from the depth and severity of injuries, I can guess how strong they were. In this case, the young man the police have in custody is much too big and strong to have been the killer."

"Maybe . . . maybe he was deliberately not using all of his strength. Maybe he was trying to throw you off?" Sandy didn't sound at all certain of what she was saying.

Amanda gave it some thought. "I suppose that could be," she admitted. "But if he was mad enough to kill someone, I think he would be pounding on the other guy as hard as he could. Also, if he was trying to cover it up, why didn't he use gloves and get out of there before the body was found? Besides, from the angle of the wounds, we know he was too tall to have been the killer."

"So, because of what you found, this guy is gonna go free?" Pedro Velasquez asked.

Amanda shook her head. "It's not that simple. Everything I have found is called circumstantial evidence. It might be enough to give the jury reasonable doubt, and they might acquit him, but the DA still has a lot of hard evidence . . . "

"Like the guy actually holding the weapon?" Alec Carver asked.

"Right," Amanda confirmed, "so, unless we find something else to prove he didn't do it . . ."

"He's going to jail anyway?" Sandy asked sadly.

"Probably," Amanda said. "That's if the DA doesn't ask for the death penalty." She was stretching the truth just a bit here, but she knew, if Sandy Green was the real killer, she'd have to create a situation the girl's conscience couldn't tolerate to get a confession. The odds for a conviction were definitely against Tucker, but there were now enough alternate theories of the murder that, without more evidence against Tucker, the DA would be willing to make a deal for a reduced charge and Tucker would probably be eligible for parole in his thirties.

"But if you know that he didn't do it . . . " Sandy began.

"I don't know that he didn't," Amanda interrupted. "I have evidence that suggests somebody else did. It's not the same. Look at it this way . . . if you and Alec . . ." She looked at the young man, and when he nodded that she had his name right, she continued, " . . . turned in identical test papers, with all the same mistakes and misspellings, Dr. Travis would have to assume that you had been cheating, right?"

"I suppose."

"He'd probably assume one of you had copied off the other, wouldn't he?"

"Yeah, but we didn't," Sandy replied.

"Of course not," Amanda agreed, "because you are both good, diligent, honest students, right?"

"Well, ninety percent of the time," Alec said with a grin, and the class chuckled.

"And you're working hard to bring that figure up to one hundred percent, right, Alec?"

Alec grinned at her, "Yes, Ma'am."

"Now the fact is, you didn't cheat. Maybe you studied together, or maybe one of you was absent and got the notes from the other, or maybe one of you copied without the other's knowledge, or maybe Susana," Amanda looked at the girl in front of Alec, "accidentally left her notes open under her desk and both of you copied from that. Whatever the case, Dr. Travis is left with two identical papers from two people who sit beside each other."

"And he has to assume we copied from each other," Alec said.

"That's right," Amanda agreed.

"He could give us a retest, couldn't he?"

"Yes I could, but that would only show what you knew of the information on the test, it wouldn't prove whether or not you were actually cheating the first time," Jesse jumped in to explain. "Just like if the police reenact a crime, without knowing for certain exactly where everyone was at the time of the incident, their results are, at best, an educated guess. The only thing that can really clear one of you would be for the other to confess, just like the only thing that will clear the suspected killer Dr. Bentley is talking about will be for the real killer to come forward."

Looking at his watch, Jesse continued, "It is almost time to pack up . . ." A few children started gathering their things, and he said, "Don't be rude. If I wait for you now, you'll wait for me to finish after the bell." Immediately, all activity stopped and all eyes were attentively on him.

"Tomorrow we start our dissection lab. Make sure you study your list of terms, you can't follow the instructions without them, and remember, on Wednesday, you'll have to be able to identify the fifteen structures on the diagram in chapter eight and explain their functions. That's a test grade." He paused a minute, to see what the kids would do, and then with a smile, he said, "Now you may pack up."

As he watched Sandy Green collect her things, he exchanged a worried glance with Amanda. The girl was clearly miserable. If she was indeed Rico's killer, her conscience was obviously eating at her. If she wasn't, she could only assume that her boyfriend was guilty and facing the death penalty. Either way, all Jesse and Amanda could do was pray that they had done the right thing.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Listen, Pa, Tuck is takin' the blame for this out of love for you. I'd hate for him to find out that you ain't worth the trouble."

Cletus Baxter narrowed his eyes at his son, not sure what the fool was getting at. Over the past two weeks, he had been holding his tongue and keeping his temper, worried that Donald would walk out and not come back if he didn't watch himself. He would never admit it, but being strapped to a hospital bed waiting until he was well enough to go to jail was harder than he had expected, and it was easier when he had company, even in the form of a stupid ninny like his own misbegotten son.

"I don't reckon you meant to do it, you was prob'ly just tryin' to help Tuck, but you got him into more trouble than we could get him out of."

Suddenly, Cletus realized what his son was accusing him of. "Shaddup, you blatherin' idjit!" he yelled, and the sudden stress on his lungs started him coughing, which the caused his broken ribs to complain, and the next thing he knew, he was fighting for consciousness. It might have hurt less if he could curl up in a ball, but with his hands cuffed to the bedrails, he just had to tough it out instead. Roused by the noise, the guard came in, but when Donald waved him off, the young man just cast them both a doubtful look and stepped back outside.

"Oh, gee, Pa, I'm sorry," Donald apologized, "but you gotta help Tuck. He shouldn't go to jail for somethin' he didn't do."

"Why . . . you think . . . we snatched . . . the cop . . . y' durned fool?"

"Well, it didn't work. They had more people out lookin' for him than was tryin' to help Tuck. You shoulda just 'fessed up to it in the beginnin'. I know you was there. The cops say somebody seen your truck the day it happened."

"I was there . . . gonna beat the puppy love . . . outta that boy if . . . talkin' didn't work." Cletus was slowly getting his breath back, but conversation was still difficult. "'Sides, if I'd kilt someone . . . wouldn't been no aks-dent . . . I'd of done it a purpose . . . an' told you 'bout it, too . . . I had good reason . . . punk was tryin' t'git my . . . grandson in trouble."

"So, you're tellin' me you didn't do it, Pa?"

"That's right."

"An' that's your story an' you're stickin' to it?"

"Yup." Cletus was grateful that he could give short answers. Since his coughing fit, he felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a jackass.

"Well, then, Pa, I guess I should tell you somethin'," Donnie said in the most threatening tone Cletus had ever heard him use. "If you don't fess up to what you done an' get Tucker off the hook, I'm gonna tell the police what you done to his mama. It might not get Tuck out of jail, but it'll make sure you rot there forever."

For the first time in his life, Donald saw his father's eyes grow wide in fear.

"That's right, Pa, I know what you done to her," Donald said tauntingly. "Gettin' loaded an' slappin' her around when she was layin' there dyin'. Then you found her works in the dresser drawer an' gave her an overdose."

"You . . . you were there?"

"My wife was dyin', Pa!" Donald shouted at his father. "We fussed with each other too much, but where the hell else would I be?"

The guard poked his head in, but once again determining that the two men were just having a heated discussion, he retreated to his post in the hallway.

"I thought it was real decent of you to give her your bed seein' as how she only had a few days left an' all, an' I didn't mind sleepin' on the livin' room floor so's you could have the couch, but that night when I went to check on her, an' I saw what you was doin' to her . . . "

"We'd have gone broke lookin' after her, an' we didn't have much to begin with. She could've made us both sick, too. She wasn't worth the risk. I was just protectin' you."

"You were protectin' yourself! You didn't never give a damn about anyone else, an' . . . "

For a moment, Donald's voice choked off, but he stopped and swallowed a couple of times, and then he continued softly. "You was right about her, Pa. She was a useless wife an' a lousy mother an' a good for nothin' junkie, but I still loved her, an' I'd have sold my soul for the chance to take care of her when she was dyin'. It was a chance for me to do somethin' good an' decent, but you took it away from me, Pa, an' I been mad about it ever since."

Cletus gave his son a narrow-eyed glare and said, "Then why didn't you do somethin' about it?"

"'Cause I'm a weaklin' an' a coward, like you always said I was. I wanted to kill you that night, but all I could do was watch you beat her up an' then shoot her full of stuff. When I realized you was plannin' to leave the house, I went off an' pretended to be asleep in the livin' room. Then I followed you an' watched you throw her body in the bay. You must've thought I was real dumb to believe that lie you told me about her goin' off to get a fix that night. I knew she was too weak to get out of bed."

Donald was as angry as he had ever been in his life, but he kept his voice to a low, furious tone, not wanting to bring the guard in yet again. "It was easy to get back to the house ahead of you, Pa, 'cause you was too drunk to drive fast. You never noticed the needle you used had been took out of the trashcan. I meant to give it to the cops the next day, with your finger prints on it, an' tell them what you did."

"Then why didn't you?"

Donald shrugged. "'Cause you're my pa, I guess, an' a son should respect his pa. 'Cause blood is thicker than water. 'Cause I was afraid of you. 'Cause of all that garbage you taught me when I was growin' up. Well, I ain't afraid no more, Pa, an' I love my son more than you ever did me. You confess to killin' that kid, or I'll tell the cops what you did to Mary-Jane. One way or the other, you're goin' to jail for murder, Pa."

As Donald walked out of the room, Cletus yelled to him, "Dammit, Donald, I did not kill that boy!" The shouting made him cough again, which made his ribs hurt, and he collapsed back against the pillows, consumed with white-hot pain, before the door had even closed behind his son.

_Sloans' Deck_

Jesse sighed and called a half-hearted 'come in' when he heard the knock on his door. It was Friday afternoon at three thirty and he was loading his backpack to head home for the weekend. He'd been looking forward all week to a quiet night in and a lazy day Saturday, but now it seemed he was going to be delayed a bit longer. Jesse had never had trouble balancing work at BBQ Bob's with his responsibilities at the hospital, so he had figured it would be a piece of cake to handle teaching and medicine once Steve was ready to take over at the restaurant. Then, a couple of weeks into his substitute teaching, he realized he had never counted on all the take-home work a teacher had to do, and now he was beginning to feel run down. Fortunately, he wasn't scheduled to work at the hospital until Saturday night, and Steve, though he hadn't been released for duty yet, was fit enough to cover double shifts at Bob's. Still, he deeply wished he had been able to get out of the building before anyone came looking for him.

As he looked up at the two girls who came through the door, he couldn't help but smile. As badly as he wanted to get home, he was still glad to see them. They were bright, diligent students who showed real promise for science, and he was trying hard to encourage them in that direction. Getting them past the 'gross factor' with the frog dissection had been a real triumph for him.

"Sandy, Shatanya, hi. I'm glad you dropped by. I have your tests graded, and girls, you both made A's. I'm so proud of you!"

Shatanya smiled nervously. "Thanks, Dr. Travis."

"I knew this was a bad idea," Sandy muttered, and as she tried to turn around and walk away, Shatanya grabbed her by the arm and said, "Umm, actually we were here about something else."

Coming around his table, he indicated a couple of seats in the front row and said, "Please, sit down, girls." Once they were situated, he joined them, and was surprised by what a comfortable fit the student's desk was for him. Now he understood why the P.E. teacher had thought he was a new student when he had walked in carrying a backpack.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked neutrally. As anxious as he had been to get home, he was still very happy he hadn't missed the girls. He was also very sad that it appeared they had been right about Rico Alonso's death. He had grown to like Sandy a great deal and had secretly been hoping all along that someone else had been responsible for killing the class bully.

Shatanya looked at her friend and tried to coax her with a gesture to talk, but when she didn't, Shatanya took the lead.

"Remember when we started the frog dissection how you brought your friend in and she told us about that guy who had been beaten to death and how she had found evidence that the guy they thought had done it really didn't?"

Jesse just nodded, and Shatanya continued.

"Remember how the kids all said it was like something that had happened here not to long ago?"

Jesse nodded again.

"And you said something about justifiable homicide, right?"

"Yeah, I did, but . . . "

"Would it be justifiable if he grabbed me in the hall and took me to the boys' bathroom and ripped my clothes and tried to make me . . . uh . . . do it?" Sandy burst into the conversation.

"It might," Jesse said, "but Sandy, if we are talking about Rico Alonso and Tucker Baxter, I think you need to call your parents and have them call a lawyer and then go to the police. Detective Cheryl Banks at the North Hollywood station is on the case, she will be glad to take your statement, but Sandy, I think you will have to have something to prove it, otherwise they might think you were just lying to protect Tucker."

"A lot of us saw her right after it happened," Shatanya said while Sandy sat there crying. "We pick a time and a bathroom every day before the first bell, and then we meet there to smoke and copy homework. Once we tried drinking, but a lot of us didn't like it, and one girl got drunk before she want back to class, and that was more trouble than it was worth."

Jesse had to suppress a smile at the folly of youth. "Witness statements are good, but hard evidence would be better," Jesse said, "and you really need to tell this to the police."

Shatanya nodded. "I still have her clothes in my locker," Shatanya said. "I threw them there after she changed because I didn't want anybody to find them in the trash, and I . . . well, I don't clean my locker all that often."

Sighing, Jesse stood up and went to the call button on the wall. He knew Ms. McGair was usually in the office until five.

"Yes, Dr. Travis?" The old woman's voice crackled in the room, and Jesse winced. He knew the uninitiated would assume the noise was static, but, thanks to his medical training, he also knew it was really the sound of emphysema, the result of many years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

"Ms. McGair, could you please page Officer Callahan. We have some new evidence in the . . . death of Rico Alonso."

He had decided not to call it murder because he still didn't want to believe Sandy was capable of such a horrible act.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Cheryl, thanks for letting me watch this," Steve said to his partner as she prepared to go into the interview room to get Sandy Green's statement. "I know it couldn't have been an easy sell with Newman."

"Actually, he was pretty understanding about it. He agreed with me that after what you have been through, you deserve to see this case through to the end." She gave him a pat on the shoulder and left.

As he sat there in the observation room waiting for Cheryl to appear on the other side of the glass, Steve took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. He would have preferred some company while he watched Cheryl's interview, but his dad was working, Jesse was covering for him at bob's so he could be here, and Amanda had to take the boys to the dentist. Intellectually, he understood why he couldn't yet take part in questioning Sandy Green or any other suspects or witnesses, but emotionally, he resented it. He had done nothing wrong, but he felt very much like he was being punished. As Cheryl entered the interview room, Steve made an effort to relax his hands, which had clenched themselves into fists so tight it made his knuckles ache. After flexing his fingers a few times, he leaned forward to hear what Sandy Green had to say.

"It all started in the cafeteria before school that day," Sandy began quietly. "I was helping Tuck with his algebra. He'd been doing really well until he got suspended, and with a little help, he might have been able to catch up again."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, Rico kinda sat at the end of the table where we were working, and he started saying stuff about me."

Cheryl waited a minute, but when the girl didn't speak, she said, "Sandy, I know this must be difficult for you, but if you want to help Tucker, you have to tell me everything that happened that day. You're our only chance to prove he didn't kill Rico, and if the other girls corroborate your story and the evidence supports it, the District Attorney will honor his deal. You won't go to jail, but you will be on probation until you turn eighteen. Now, do you think you can go on and tell me the whole story?"

Sandy took a deep breath and reached out her hand to her mother. Mrs. Green took it, and she held on tight throughout her daughter's story.

"Well, Rico and I dated for a while. We kinda fooled around, but I never let him do anything more than touch me, y'know?"

Cheryl nodded slightly, and Sandy went on. "Well, he started telling Tucker all these lies about things he was had done to me, things I never let him do, and he started making up things he would do to me if he ever got me alone."

"What kinds of things, Sandy?"

The girl started to cry then. "Sex stuff," she sniffled, "Dirty stuff. He used the f-word a lot, and said he would make me scream. Do I have to say everything he told me?"

Cheryl looked at the Assistant DA who shook his head slightly, and she said, "No, that's enough detail for now. What happened next?"

Steve realized his hands were once again aching from being clenched into fists, and he had to breathe deeply and make himself relax again. He found he wasn't angry just with Rico Alonso for threatening the girl, he was angry with Sandy for not telling someone, with Tucker for getting caught in the middle of it, and with teachers and administrators who allowed the bully to continue tormenting his classmates for the sheer pleasure of seeing their fear. When his anger extended to Cheryl and the DA for their involvement with the case, he realized he was getting carried away and knew sooner or later he had to face down Cletus Baxter if he was ever going to get a grip. After some more deep breathing, he turned his attention back to Sandy's story.

" . . . and I knew Tuck was gonna fight him, but I didn't want him to get suspended again, so I signed out of class and went looking for him. I found him in the south stairwell, and he . . . he had the hammer. He was gonna fight Rico to protect me, but I made him give it to me and go back to class. I was gonna leave it in the office. My locker is right across the hall and it would be real easy to slip in there and drop it off without being noticed, but Rico found me before I could get there and he dragged me into the boys' bathroom and started tearing my clothes so I hit him and hit him and hit him. I guess he never yelled because no one ever came running, and then I hit him in the head and he made this awful squeaking sound and he fell and didn't move anymore, and that's when I knew he was dead!"

The longer Sandy talked, the faster her words came, and when she finally came to the moment in her story when Rico died, she dissolved in tears. While she wept, Steve paced in the observation room. He couldn't remember ever being so angry. He wanted to hit something, wanted to beat the hell out of someone, and it really didn't matter whom. He settled for punching out the vacant chair next to his while Sandy cried herself out, and decided it was time to do something about his own problems as soon as Tucker Baxter's troubles were resolved.

". . . and I guess Tuck . . . was worried about me be . . . because of what Rico had said . . . he would do," Sandy snuffled, "because the next thing I re . . . remember, he was there. He sent me into the girls' room . . . to clean up, and Shatanya was there be . . . because that is where all the girls had decided to get together that day. She . . . she had some clothes in her locker because her. . . her mom makes her dress like a nun so . . . she changes when she gets to school. Tuck said he'd . . . he'd take care of everything, so he . . . he snuck me out the side door, and I . . . I took the city bus home . . . I didn't know what he had done until I went back to school a couple of days later, and then I just didn't know what to do. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

As Sandy started sobbing, Steve started pacing again. He was furious with himself and Cheryl for being so easily fooled, with the kids for keeping such a grim secret, and with Donnie and Cletus Baxter for the outrageous way they chose to get his father and friends involved in solving the crime. Suddenly, he felt as if he were about to crawl out of his skin. Leaving the observation room, he walked down the hall, rapped on a nearby door, and when Cheryl poked her head out, he quickly made his excuses.

"Look, I can't listen to any more of this," he said. "I think I know how it is gonna go. Sandy killed Rico, Tucker framed himself to cover for her, and Shantanya was stuck in the middle, not knowing what to do. I'm gonna get out of here. Call me if there are any surprises."

"Ok, but are you sure . . . " Cheryl stopped talking because Steve walked away without waiting to hear her reply.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Steve?" Mark called quietly, his concern for his son evident in the single word. He had just come home from working the four-to-midnight shift in the ER to find Steve sitting quietly under the light out on the deck. His hair was dried stiff and plastered to his head, and a faint white ring of salt stained his dark t-shirt. His hands were bruised and bloodied from apparently beating the stuffing out of something.

Steve looked up and smiled wanly, and when he looked back at the ocean, Mark stepped quickly back into the kitchen to grab a Gatorade from the fridge for his son and a soda for himself. From the look of him, Steve could use the electrolytes, and if they were gonna stay up talking for hours, which seemed likely from the look of things, Mark knew he would need the help of some caffeine.

Back out on the deck, he took the seat beside his son and held out the bottle of sports drink. When Steve seemed not to notice, he tapped him lightly on the wrist with the cool container, and Steve started slightly, and then, seeming to come back into the world from wherever he had gone, he took hold of the bottle without even a word of thanks.

"Good workout?" Mark asked, undeterred.

At last, he got a grunt, and after a few moments of silence, he decided to try again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Steve took a breath and opened his mouth as if to speak, but he just sighed noisily, twisted the cap off his Gatorade, and frowned. He took another swallow of the red liquid and finally said something.

"I could really use a beer."

"I think there's one in the fridge," Mark said, knowing alcohol was not a good idea given the mood Steve was in but not sure what else he could say to keep the conversation going. To his relief, Steve declined.

"Nah. The way I'm feeling, if I had one, I'd probably finish the whole case."

"Rough day?"

Steve took another pull from his bottle of sports drink and said, "Rico Alonso's real killer confessed. It was Sandy Green. He was trying to rape her."

Mark nodded then frowned. "But the hammer?"

"Oh, Tucker was planning to fight Rico, and he took it out of the shop to have an advantage," Steve said, "but Sandy found him in the hall and sent him back to class. She was going to dispose of I for him, but Rico cornered her before she could, and she used it to defend herself."

"Then Tucker showed up and covered for her."

"Yeah. Apparently, a little clique meets in the restrooms every day to cut class and smoke and do whatever else kids do. Tucker found one of Sandy's friends and had her clean Sandy up and send her home."

"Then he framed himself for the murder," Mark concluded, gratified that he had been right about the boy, but saddened that the other child had died so brutally despite what he had been trying to do to Sandy Green. Suddenly angry, he wondered, "Where the hell were the teachers when all of this was going on?"

"In their classrooms trying to teach the kids they could reach, Dad," Steve replied. "Don't get so worked up. They're doing their best, but besides being overworked and underpaid, many of them don't have enough books or desks or anything else for all of their kids. A lot of the parents they deal with don't care, don't know any better, or are practically children themselves, and kids have been cutting class as long as adults have been making them go to school. I did it, more often than you ever found out about."

"But you didn't try to rape anyone, or end up killing anybody!"

"No, but if you found out about some of the things I did do, you would probably still ground me for them today," Steve confessed with slight humor in his voice. "Kids are just kids, like they've always been; they're a reflection of the society they grow up in, and teachers are doing the best they can with what they have in very difficult circumstances. Getting angry about it doesn't help. We need more people who are willing to do something."

Now the bruises and scrapes were beginning to make sense. Mark gently tapped one of Steve's battered hands and said, "So you went to Kelley's gym to remind yourself that you are doing something."

Steve grunted and gingerly rubbed one sore hand with the other. "Actually, no, I went there to beat the stuffing out of something instead of doing it to someone."

"Oh? Who did you want to beat up?"

"You know, it didn't even matter. I was just so pissed off I knew that if I didn't leave the precinct I was going to get myself in trouble, maybe suspended, so I just left."

Mark nodded, knowing he would have to tread carefully. He knew Steve had gotten over his guilt about beating Cletus up, but there was a lot of lingering anger and resentment still there that he and Bennett Taylor had been working on in the weeks since he had been rescued. The slowly fading scars that Steve still bore and had to look at every day certainly couldn't make it any easier.

"Well, then, why were you mad?"

"Because I didn't do my job right!" Steve snapped. "I arrested the wrong person. I was angry with myself for screwing up and with Cheryl for having to clean up behind me and with those damned, stupid kids for the mess they created!" As he spoke, Steve had risen to his feet and his voice had gotten louder and he moved to the rail to rage at the sea.

"And I suppose you were angry with Cletus, too, for taking you out of the action, huh?"

"No kidding! What was your first clue?" he shouted. Needing to do something physical, he drew back his hand and hurled his Gatorade out onto the dunes as he shouted a curse that could have shocked the ocean into retreating from the beach.

Still fuming, Steve turned around and saw the look of horror and fear on his father's face, and his rage melted. When he took a step forward, Mark recoiled, and Steve froze in his tracks.

"Oh, God, Dad, I'm sorry." He sank to a crouch and leaned his back against the deck rail. Cradling his head in his hands, he murmured again, "I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Mark moved carefully forward to kneel before his son and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, Steve. Really, it's ok."

"No, Dad, it's not."

"No, I suppose not, but it will be."

"I hate feeling this way all the time, and I shouldn't have yelled at you."

Mark stayed where he was with his hand on Steve's shoulder for a minute or so, and then when he was sure his son was calm and rational, he began to speak gently. "Son, I know you have been seeing Bennett Taylor, and I trust him to look after you. This isn't even a suggestion, really, just another idea, an option to remember if nothing else works. I was just wondering . . . have you considered checking into the Last Resort?"

Steve's head snapped up, and the look of fear in his eyes made Mark wish he hadn't spoken. He knew Steve understood the value of the special program for cops with substance abuse and emotional problems. However, he also knew that the time he had spent in a mock-up of the facility, trying to help unlock his former training partner's subconscious and get him to confess to killing his wife and daughter, had affected Steve deeply.

Slowly, the fear dissipated, though, and left behind a look of resolve.

"No, Dad, I don't need to go there," Steve said as he calmly stood up. "I refuse to let that hateful old bastard have that much control over me." Slowly shaking his head, he said, "No, a couple of weeks ago, Bennett told me that I knew what I needed to do, and he was right. I'll do it tomorrow, and then, everything will be ok."

Steve smiled slightly at his father's confusion, but didn't offer much of an explanation. He just patted Mark on the shoulder and said, "Don't worry, I'll stay out of trouble."

_Sloans' Deck_

"Pa!" Tucker yelled and sprinted down the hall into the waiting arms of his father.

Donnie swept him up into an uncharacteristic bear hug and laughed with joy to have his son back.

"I knew you'd git me outtta here, but how did you do it?"

Donald nodded toward the young man who had accompanied him to the county jail and said. "I had a little help. This feller here got the real killer to confess."

Suddenly horrified, Tucker turned toward Jesse and shouted, "No! It was me! I did it! I killed Rico. Sandy's just tryin' to protect me. Don't believe her."

Donald barely caught hold of his son as he bore down on Jesse and said, "Hold on there, young'un! Ain't nothin' bad happenin' to her. They're acceptin' it was self-defense. She'll be on pr'bation awhile, but she ain't goin' to no jail."

"What about college? Pa, you can't go to college if you have a record. That's why I done what I did. She's smart. She should go to college."

Donnie was obviously unsure how to answer, so Jesse spoke up. "She's still a juvenile, so her records will be sealed. Colleges and scholarship committees will never know."

"So, she can still go to college?"

Jesse nodded. "Yeah. You can, too, if you want. That rule only applies to felony convictions. Obstruction of justice, which is what you did when you made it look like you were the one who killed Rico, is only a misdemeanor."

"I ain't sure I'm even goin' back to high school. At this rate, I'll be twenty-one before I graduate."

"Tuck, I want you to git some education," Donnie said as he started walking his boy out of the jailhouse. "If you kin git into college, I want you to go. You're the first of us Baxters to ever have the chance to do anythin' with his life. Make the most of it."

"Are you sure, Pa? I'll be smarter than you, then."

"Shoot, you was smarter than me by the time you got to third grade. I ain't never minded. I was always real proud of you."

Jesse couldn't help but smile as he followed them out. He had been flattered that Donnie had asked him to come along to get Tucker released from jail, and he was honored to have been allowed to overhear their conversation. Now he would take them to the hospital where they would visit Cletus before he was released to the county jail, and then they would part ways. He thought he might still check in with them from time to time, if they didn't mind, but either way, he wished them both all the best.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Are you sure you want to do this today?" Mark asked worriedly. They had been arguing since breakfast about the wisdom of Steve's decision, and while Steve appreciated his father's concern and desire to protect him, nothing so far had changed his mind.

"I'll have to face him sooner or later, Dad," Steve replied as he stood before the mirror shaving. He was getting ready to go see Cletus Baxter in the hospital for the first time since the day he'd dragged his aching, fever-wracked body to the ICU nearly a month ago.

"I know, Son, but why does it have to be sooner?"

"He's due to be released from the hospital tomorrow," Steve explained. "Then he'll be sentenced and shipped out to one of the state penitentiaries, and I don't want to have to spend a day driving just to see him. Besides, Bennett Taylor is right. As long as I feel this way about him, he has control over me. Every time I think about him, my guts tie themselves in knots, I start to feel sick, and I want to pound the hell out of something."

"You know, what you are feeling is perfectly normal," Mark commented.

Steve nodded. "I know that, and before you say it, I know what I did to him was understandable, too. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed of it anymore, either. Still, I can't live my life this way, Dad, and I hope seeing him again for what he is, just another creep with a mean streak, will help me move on."

Mark met his son's gaze in the mirror and saw the unspoken fear in Steve's eyes, the fear that if he didn't deal with Cletus soon, he would never be able to face the man, that if he didn't let his anger and hatred go now, he would never break free of the hold Baxter had on him. He knew Steve had an appointment with his police psychologist scheduled for later in the day. The plan was to confront Cletus Baxter and then go straight to his counseling session in case he needed to talk about it. The hope was that after today Steve would be ready to go back to work, free of the burden of hatred that had been plaguing him since his rescue.

Giving his son a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and a smile that belied his apprehensiveness, Mark said, "Ok, Steve, you do what you have to do. You know where to find me if you need to talk."

Steve smiled back, though not as convincingly as his father had. "Thanks, Dad. I'll be ok."

_Sloans' Deck_

"I told him that girl was nothin' but trouble," Cletus Baxter grumbled as his grandson left the hospital room.

"Shoot, Pa, I don't blame him for walkin' out," Donnie said amiably. "You been mean to him since he came in here. As for the trouble he got in, he done that all by himself. He might a done a stupid thing, Pa, but he did it for the right reasons. He was tryin' to help someone he cared about, an' I'm real proud of him for that."

"Yeah? Well, what about all the trouble he got us into, huh? You proud of him for that, too?"

"Nah, that weren't his fault, Pa, an' you know it," Donnie corrected his father, and the easygoing tone he had been using was strained. "You was just stupid drunk enough to do somethin' crazy, an' I was scared of you an' dumb enough to follow along. We made our own trouble."

"Boy, if I wasn't chained to this here bed, I'd whup your tail for talkin' to me like that."

Donnie had taken all he could stand. His expression tightened, and his voice hardened. "You might try, Pa, but I think I'd stop you."

"Why . . . " Cletus sputtered and stammered, too shocked and angry to get out another word.

"I been afraid of you way too long, Pa, an' I should of been lookin' after my boy." Donnie spoke calmly but firmly over his father's sputtering rage. "I ain't afraid of you no more," he said, "an' I haven't respected you since I was younger 'n Tuck. I'll always love you 'cause you're my pa, but you ain't gonna push me around no more."

Cletus gave up trying to speak or even curse and just started sullenly up at his son who was, before his very eyes, suddenly becoming the man he always should have been.

"Now, I'll try to come see you once more before you get sent to the penitentiary," Donnie said reasonably, "an' I'll try to get Tuck to come with me, but I won't force him. If I don't make it before they send you wherever you're gonna end up, I promise I'll do my best to come see you at least once a month, an' if you let 'em teach you to read, I'll write to you, too."

Cletus nodded, and Donnie leaned over to speak softly. "I'm sorry I thought you killed that boy, Pa. I should have known you'd have told me if you did it. An' I won't tell nobody about Mary-Jane, neither, so you don't need to live in fear of that. I reckon until you get a conscience you won't see that it's the right thing to do, an' if you ever do figure out that you did an evil thing, you'll want to confess to it yourself."

At the mention of his late daughter-in-law, Cletus' eyes widened. As things stood now, he would be in jail for the rest of his life for what he did to the cop. If he'd been a younger man, he might have lived to make parole, but at his age, he would be in his nineties before he was eligible for his first hearing.

The only thing that could be accomplished by charging him with Mary-Jane's murder would be to make his grandson turn away from him forever, and he didn't want that. He might never say it, but he was awful fond of the boy and he didn't like to think he might hate him. He also knew the boy had suffered keenly from the lack of a mother while he was sprouting up. To Tuck, it wouldn't matter that his ma was nothing but trouble or that she was dying anyway; he would only care that his grandpa had killed her.

Cletus didn't want to spend the rest of his life in prison without ever seeing his grandson again. He was unused to asking for anything and never thought he would have to do so with his son, but finally, he whispered earnestly, "Promise me."

"What?" Donnie asked, unsure he had heard his father correctly.

"You might be a pitiful, sorry excuse for a man, Donald," he said, "but you're honest. Promise me you won't tell Tucker about his ma."

"You have my word I won't, Pa."

Cletus nodded his thanks, and then there was a rap on the door and it opened. Neither man expected to see the cop they had abducted come into the room, so as he stood there hesitating, they exchanged confused looks.

Finally, Donald found his voice. "Come on in, Detective."

Steve nodded and stepped forward. Neither Cletus nor Donald missed the tense body language, the clenched fists or the twitching jaw, and both were grateful that there was a guard outside the room, just in case.

"Whadda you want?" Cletus said disdainfully.

"I'm here to talk to you, Baxter," he said, and the piercing look he gave Cletus left no doubt about which Baxter he meant.

"Well, you kin save your breath if you come to say you're sor. . . "

"I'm not about to apologize," Steve snapped. "What I did wasn't right, but only a fool wouldn't have known it was coming."

"Well, if you ain't here to ask for my forgiveness, you must be here to enjoy what you done. How does it feel to know you're as bad as me?"

Steve took a step forward and hovered menacingly over the bed. Donnie saw the guard looking in through the glass with concern.

"I'm not like you, Cletus," the big cop said. "I don't get my kicks abusing people who are weaker than me . . . and I don't need to do it to feel like a man."

The taunt hit its mark, and Steve grinned wickedly as Cletus struggled against his restraints, cursing and grumbling furiously. Slowly, the grin faded and then slouched into a frown. Steve's posture relaxed, and he looked at the old man a little sadly. Now that their positions were reversed, Baxter looked far more pathetic than menacing and needling him wasn't nearly as much fun as Steve had expected it to be.

"Dammit all, if you ain't here to apologize an' you ain't here to glory in what you done to me, then what do you want?"

"I'm here to tell you that you don't have any power over me any more. I'm not afraid of you."

Steve could feel the weeks of rage melting out of him. His muscles relaxed, a headache, which he only now realized he'd had for days, went away. His heart felt lighter and he knew he had done the right thing. Stepping up to the bed, he put one hand on the rail.

"Well, you did a hell of a good impression of it back at my cabin," Cletus said. "Froze like a startled rabbit every time I spoke. Another day, an' I'd have had you cryin' for your ma."

"Pa, stop it," Donald hissed at him, sure that his father was trying to provoke another beating, and just as sure if it happened that he wouldn't survive this time.

Cletus ignored his son and eyed the battered hand on his bedrail. It hadn't clenched around the metal yet, hadn't even twitched. Unable to stop himself, he sized up the bruises and said nastily, "Looks like you been usin' your fists again already. Was it some defenseless kid like my grandson or an old man like me? Are you sure you're as good an' squeaky clean as you think you are? For someone who don't enjoy beatin' on people, you seem to do a hell of lot of it."

"Pa!" Donald naturally didn't want to see his father beaten up, but he didn't want to see the cop go to jail for doing it either. Steve Sloan was a decent guy, but Cletus was really asking for it, and Donald knew he wasn't strong enough to stop him if he did light into Cletus. He could only hope the man's decency would keep him from assaulting a man who was chained to his bed.

Steve sympathized with Donald Baxter's worry. Many times his own father had driven him to distraction with reckless behavior, but he also enjoyed the surprise on Cletus Baxter's face when he didn't react to the goading.

"You can't make me hate you, Baxter. You're not worth the trouble," he said.

Cletus' angry, twisted features suddenly went blank. He'd heard those same words just the other day, from his own son when he was trying to get him to confess to a murder he didn't commit. He'd been hated, feared, and despised all his adult life, and it had never bothered him, but to be thought worthless, that cut him to the quick. His father had called him that too many times when he was a boy, and it had hurt then, too. It was the reason he had stayed at home to care for his parents when they grew old, hoping to get some measure of respect out of the old man, knowing that asking for anything else would be expecting too much. It was the reason he had gone out of his way to make people fear him all his life, because he knew they would never admire him. It was the reason he had killed Mary-Jane, because when he refused to help her with her medicines she had called him that, and he wouldn't let a woman talk to him that way.

Cletus Baxter didn't mind being feared and reviled. He wouldn't object to people spitting on his grave or dancing on it with joy to know he was dead. He could tolerate being called mean, dirty, disgusting, hateful, evil, filthy, and any number of other names people could think up, but he couldn't abide being thought worthless.

He looked at his son and knew, as soft as he was, whether he wanted him to or not, Donald would love him. The cop would never respect him, not that he cared, and he really wasn't afraid or angry anymore, but maybe, if he did something people figured was decent once in his life, he could show the man that he wasn't quite good for nothing. Tucker was young, there might be time to win him over, if Donald would just bring him to visit once in a while. After all he had done over the years, he guessed maybe he owed his son and grandson a chance at a decent life, and they couldn't have that with his secret hanging over them.

"I'm gonna die in prison anyway," he muttered, and felt a small amount of amusement at the confusion he saw on the cop's face.

Looking the other man in the eye, he said, "I have a confession to make, Detective. I killed Mary-Jane, Tucker's ma."

"Pa?"

The surprise in Donald's single word stopped Cletus short. He looked at his son with something that tried to be love and said, "I don't know what I woulda done if I'd had a second chance at Tuck's age, or even your age, to do things right, but I do know it will never work as long as you're keepin' my secret. He deserves to know, but I would appreciate it if you would let me tell him myself."

Donald nodded. "I will, Pa. I promise."

"Good. Now go on and git that boy home. Put a decent meal in him, and tell him . . . I said hi."

Donnie almost smiled, but the sadness in he eyes wouldn't let him. "I'll tell him you love him, Pa," he said, and then he was gone.

Steve stood in the room, looking at Cletus, and he knew something remarkable had just happened. The old man glared up at him and said, "Nobody would've blamed you if you'd kilt me, not even my son."

"Probably not," Steve agreed, "but I would have." After another moment's silence, he said, "I'll get an officer to take your statement." Then, he too walked out of the room.

_Sloans' Deck_

"So, why didn't you take his statement yourself?" Bennett Taylor asked. Despite the damaged knuckles, he had known the moment Steve Sloan had walked in that the man was ready to go back to work. He was calm, relaxed, and in visibly better condition than he had been at their last visit. He was only making small talk so Steve would believe an evaluation was being conducted and accept the results without second-guessing them and worrying that it might be too soon.

"Well, officially, I'm still on medical leave."

Bennett laughed. "I've seen your record. That's never stopped you before."

"No, I suppose not," Steve admitted with a rueful look, "but given my history with Baxter, I think any confession I took from him would be considered suspect."

"It probably would," Bennet agreed. "Does that bother you?"

"Yes and no," Steve said and then considered his answer. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to say anything that would make Bennett keep him off duty any longer. "I'm not happy with what I did, and I never will be, but I also know I was pushed to it, and that any normal person wouldn't have expected me to behave differently. My conscience is clear. Knowing that my dad never held it against me has helped a lot, too. Mostly, though, I am just glad it's over."

"Is it over?" Bennett asked. "Are you really free of Cletus Baxter?"

Steve nodded. "What he did to me is just a bad memory. I'm not angry any more because I have my life back, and he can't do anything about that."

"How do you feel to know that he will probably die in jail because of you?" Bennett was deliberately goading his patient, wanting to see how he would react.

"Not because of me, but because of what he did to me," Steve corrected calmly. "I guess I feel like I do with any other criminal, but maybe a little more satisfied because it's personal."

"What about Donald and Tucker Baxter? I know you were thinking about helping them out."

"I'm gonna think about that a little longer before I do anything," Steve replied. "It might be good for my dad and me to set an example for them, but I still don't know if it's a good idea to get too involved with them. Dad's still on the fence, too. We need to talk it over some more."

Bennett said, "I know how highly you value your dad's opinions. How do you think he will feel about the way you conducted yourself today?"

"I think he'll be proud of me, and relieved that it went all right."

Bennett nodded. "It sounds to me like you're ready to go back to work. What do you think?"

"I think you're right," Steve said with a grin.

Bennett came around the desk and extended his hand to shake. "I'll contact your captain and let him know you'll be back on Monday, but only for desk duty the first week. Then, if there are no problems, you can go back to your normal work."

As Steve left the office, his step was lighter than it had been in a long time, and as he walked down the hall, memories came to him: a man holding his infant son; two kids, one a little over six feet tall, and one barely over four feet, playing cowboy; kids riding dirt bikes, his mother fretting for his safety and his father urging him on; proud parents congratulating a newly minted police officer; a worried father watching him go out into a forest fire; searching frantically for a missing friend and trying to help him when he came back lost and confused; helping another friend track a serial killer without becoming a victim herself. Through it all, and through everything he had ever done in his life, one thing remained constant, made the good times sweeter and the bad times bearable, a father's love.


End file.
